SB   UBRARV  3* 

• 


THE 

GREATER    LOVE 


BY 

ALGERNON  SIDNEY  CRAPSEY 

SECOND    EDITION. 


THE 

K.bbey  Press 

PUBLISHERS 

114 
FIFTH    AVENUE 

Emtimi  NEW  YORK  Jtomtmtl 


Copyright,  1903 

by 
The 

press 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Dedication    1 

The  Reason  Why 3 

BOOK   FIRST— KETURAH   BAIN. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     Keturah   15 

II.     Her  Father   21 

III.     Her  Mother   . .  .  1 27 

IV.     Childhood  Days    31 

V.     The  Beginning  of  Sorrows 35 

VI.     The  First  Disaster 41 

VII.     A  Misfortune  of  War 47 

VIII.     The  Birth  of  Love 57 

IX.     Poor  Benjamin  63 

X.     A  Forgotten  Mother 69 

XI.     An   Annual   Proposal 77 

XII.     Raiment  of  Needlework 83 

XIII.     Shinar  to  the  Rescue 95 

XIV.     A  Family  Council 99 

XV.     A  Political  Proposition 103 

XVI.     Heaviness  in  the  Night 109 

XVII.     Joy  in  the  Morning 117 

XVIII.     A  Business   Requirement 125 

XIX.     What  Dogs  Are  For 133 

XX.     A  New  Name  and  a  New  Life 141 

XXI.     A  Covert  from  the  Wind 145 

XXII.     Old  Saint  Nicholas 149 

XXIII.  A  Divine  Yoke-Fellow 153 

XXIV.  Is  It  True? 159 

XXV.     After  the  Storm 165 

XXVI.  Adorned  for  the  Sacrifice 169 

XXVII.  A  Boy's  Passion 175 

XXVIII.     Too  Late    183 

iii. 


Table  of  Contents — Continued 

BOOK    SECOND— DR.    SUYDAM. 

CHAPTEB  PAGE 

I.     Dr.    Suydam 195 

II.    An  Ominous  Cough 199 

III.     Domesticity   203 

IV.     Marriage  Rights  of  the  Poor 213 

V.    The  Policy  of  an  Estate 219 

VI.     The  Devil  at  Work 227 

VII.     The  Making  of  a  Will 233 

VIII.     Buying  a  Coronet 237 

IX.     A  Sorry  Bargain 243 

X.     A  Woman's  Fate 249 

XI.     For  So  Much 255 

XII.     Yes,  Your  Grace 261 

XIII.     An  Unbidden  Guest 267 

XIV.     A  Face  in  a  Glass 273 

XV.     Mother  and  Son 281 

XVI.     Thus  Saith  the  Lord 287 

XVII.     Saved  as  by  Fire 295 

XVIII.     The  Shadow  of  Death 301 

XIX.     A  Watcher  by  the  Door 309 

XX.     A  New  Life 313 

XXI.     A  Goodly  Inheritance 321 

BOOK   THIRD— THE    GREAT    REDEMPTION. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     Wicked  London's  Waifs  and  Strays 331 

II.     A  Mighty  Ruin 339 

III.     The  Bleating  of  the  Sheep 345 

IV.     The  Fall  of  Lucifer 353 

V.     A  Night  Watch 359 

VI.     A  Silly  Sheep 363 

VII.     A  Little  Child  Shall  Lead  Them 369 

VIII.     The  Mystic  Woman 373 

IX.    The  Compliments  of  His  Grace 381 

X.     Out  on  the  Ebb  Tide 385 

XI.     The  Return  of  the  Shepherd 391 

XII.     She  Said,  "I  Will" 397 

iv. 


Table  of  Contents— Continued 


CHAPTEE 

XIII.  Desolation  in  the  Holy  Place. .  . 

XIV.  O  Absalom!  My  Son!  My  Son! 

XV  This  Present  World 

XVI.  At  Last! 

XVII.  Rest  and  Peace 

XVIII.  Shinar's  Cousins   

XIX.  "Kiss  Me  Good-Night,  John". 


XX.     Dr.  Suydam  Is  Dead. 
The  Greater  Love 


PAGE 

.  411 
.  417 
.  423 
.  427 
.  43, 
.  437 
.  445 
.  451 


DEDICATION 

WHILE  this  book  was  in  process  of  preparation  for  the 
press,  it  was  subject  to  the  criticism  of  one  to  whose 
judgment  the  writer  constantly  deferred.  Before  the 
book  was  completed,  this  wise  critic  was  suddenly  taken 
away  by  death.  That  event,  saddening  as  it  did  the  life 
of  the  writer,  delayed  the  completion  of  the  work. 

Now  that  he  is  about  to  submit  his  creation  to  the 
colder  and  impartial  judgment  of  the  reading  public,  the 
writer  wishes  to  say,  that,  whatever  may  be  the  fate  of 
his  book,  he  has  already  been  amply  repaid  for  any  labor 
and  anxiety  it  may  have  cost  him,  by  the  fact  that  it  gave 
some  pleasure  and  added  some  interest  to  the  last  days 
on  earth  of  Emily  Margaret  Crapsey ;  who  was  both  the 
loving  daughter  and  the  judicious  friend  of  the  writer, 
and  to  whose  blessed  memory  and  pure  spirit,  as  an  act 
of  gratitude  for  all  that  she  was  to  him  and  of  all  that 
she  did  for  him,  he  now  dedicates  this  book. 


THE    REASON   WHY 

IN  the  latter  part  of  the  sixth,  and  early  in  the  seventh 
decade  of  the  nineteenth  century,  in  the  night  school  of 
the  Duane  Street  Lodging  House  for  boys,  in  the  City  of 
New  York,  there  was  a  lad  who  went  by  the  name  of 
Shinar.  This  boy  did  not  lodge  in  the  house ;  he  lived  in 
Mulberry  Street. 

Shinar  was  not  his  legal  name ;  indeed,  the  boy  had  no 
legal  name — no  name  derived  by  right  from  his  father — 
since  Shinar  had  no  father  that  either  he  or  anybody  else 
had  ever  heard  of.  He  was  born  in  that  under  world 
where  people  cannot  be  so  particular  about  their  parents, 
but  must  take  life  as  it  comes  to  them,  without  knowing 
or  caring  from  whom  it  comes. 

When  Shinar  was  a  month  old  he  was  taken  by  his 
mother  to  a  Mrs.  Magrath,  who  kept  what  was  known  as 
a  baby  farm  in  the  Bend  of  Mulberry  Street.  Mrs.  Ma- 
grath received  with  the  baby,  as  was  her  rule,  three 
months'  pay  in  advance.  Mrs.  Magrath  adhered  rigidly 
to  this  custom  of  advance  payment,  because  so  only  could 
she  hope  for  any  payment  at  all.  From  long  experience 
the  baby  farmer  had  learned  that  a  baby  left  with  her  was 
a  baby  forgotten.  She  limited  her  demand  to  three 
months'  expenses  because  that  was  the  average  life  of 
children  left  in  her  care.  If,  by  chance,  any  child  lived 
longer  than  that,  his  next  of  kin  was  notified,  and  if,  at 


The  Greater  Love 

the  end  of  another  month  nothing  was  heard  from  them, 
the  child  died.  The  cost  of  the  last  month  was  paid  by 
the  child  itself.  It  was  buried  at  the  expense  of  the  charit- 
able public,  the  charge  for  the  time  and  care  of  Mrs. 
Magrath  being  included  in  the  bill.  In  this  way  Mrs. 
Magrath  lived  an  honest  and  a  useful  life,  caring  for  those 
for  whom  nobody  else  would  care,  nursing  them  as  long 
as  they  lived,  and  burying  them  decently  when  dead,  and 
at  the  same  time  laying  up  for  herself  a  little  treasure  in 
the  bank. 

Shinar's  mother  brought  him  to  the  Magrath  farm, 
and  paid  the  usual  fee  and  went  her  way,  and  nobody  ever 
heard  of  her  again.  That  the  boy  did  not  follow  the  cus- 
tom of  the  Magrath  children  and  die  at  the  end  of  the 
third  or  fourth  month  was  owing  to  the  lusty  life  that  was 
in  him,  and  still  more  to  the  interposition  of  Providence  in 
the  person  of  a  young  girl. 

The  Magrath  farm  in  the  Bend  of  Mulberry  Street 
was  next  to  a  cottage,  then  owned  and  occupied  by  a  sea- 
faring man  named  Joshua  Bain.  At  that  time,  Mulberry 
Street  was  not  built  up  with  great  tenements  as  it  is  now, 
but  was  lined  with  small  cottages,  set,  for  the  most  part, 
back  from  the  street.  Of  these  houses  the  Bain  cottage 
was  No.  53.  Owing  to  this  proximity  the  Bains  were 
more  or  less  troubled  by  the  Magrath  children ;  but,  as  the 
Bains  were  good-hearted  people,  they  took  that  trouble 
kindly,  and  did  all  they  could  to  help  Mrs.  Magrath  in  the 
care  of  her  little  ones. 

Keturah,  the  eldest  of  the  Bain  children,  was  espe- 
cially useful  in  this  way.  Nearly  every  day  she  would  go 
into  Mrs.  Magrath's  and  try  to  still  the  wailing  voices  of 
the  babies,  and  to  wonder  why  they  were  always  sick  and 
why  they  died  so  soon.  To  her  questions  Mother  Magrath 


The  Reason  Why 

would  answer,  piously :  "Tis  the  Lord's  will,  me  dear. 
Blissid  be  His  name ;  the  holy  Mary  is  afther  wantin'  thim 
in  hivin." 

Little  Keturah  wondered  still  more  when  she  heard 
this,  and  she  said  within  herself,  "If  the  Lord  wanted  them 
back  so  soon,  why  did  he  send  them  at  all  ?  Why  did  not 
the  holy  Mary  keep  them,  if  she  loved  them,  and  not  let 
them  come  to  this  world  only  to  be  sick,  and  to  die,  and  to 
cry  all  day  and  all  night,  and  make  little  girls  so  sorry  for 
them?"  The  child  did  not  tell  these  thoughts,  she  only 
pondered  them  in  her  heart,  and  told  them  long  afterward 
to  the  writer  of  this  book  when  he  was  her  friend  and 
counsellor. 

When  the  baby,  who  afterward  became  the  boy  Shinar, 
was  brought  to  the  farm,  Keturah  was  thirteen  years  old, 
just  trembling  on  the  verge  of  womanhood.  As  soon  as 
she  saw  this  child,  her  own  motherhood  was  born  in  her, 
and  her  heart  yearned  after  the  baby;  he  was  such  a 
pretty  baby.  She  took  him  in  her  arms,  and  when  she 
looked  in  his  deep,  dark  eyes,  and  he  smiled  in  her  face, 
she  burst  out  crying  and,  in  the  midst  of  her  sobs,  said : 
"O,  Mother  Magrath,  must  he  die  like  the  rest?  Does 
the  Lord  want  him  right  away  ?  Wont  the  holy  Mary  let 
me  keep  him  just  for  a  little  while?" 

"Shurely,  dearie;  if  ye  prays  to  her  and  gives  her 
candles.  But  thin  who's  to  pay  for  him  whin  the  money's 
gone?  The  holy  Mother  might  let  ye  kape  the  spalpeen, 
but  she  ud  niver  pay  for  the  likes  of  him ;  niver.  She  ud 
say  it's  chaper  to  take  care  of  him  in  hivin,  it  is." 

"Oh,  Mother  Magrath,"  said  Keturah,  eagerly,  "I  will 
pay  for  him.  I  have  a  little  money  that  I  have  saved,  and 
I  am  a  big  girl  and  can  earn  money  now,  so  please  ask 
the  Lord  to  let  him  stay.  I  will  give  the  blessed  Mother 


The  Greater  Love 

two  pounds  of  candles  from  the  store  if  she  will  only  give 
this  baby  to  me  for  my  very  own." 

"All  right,  dearie,"  said  Mother  Magrath,  "your'n  he 
is,  and  ye  may  bring  me  the  candles.  Ye  naden't  be  afther 
troublin'  the  holy  Mary,  I  ull  spake  to  her ;  she  is  a  frind 
o'  mine,  she  is." 

So  little  Keturah  became  the  foster  mother  of  the 
nameless  waif  from  the  street.  She  afterward  wondered 
how  it  was  all  arranged  so  easily  with  the  Lord  and  the 
blessed  Mother ;  but  that  was  not  her  business,  and  she  did 
not  trouble  herself  about  it.  All  that  she  knew  and  cared 
for  was  that  she  had  a  baby  to  love,  and  she  loved  it.  She 
had  a  brother  and  a  sister,  but  then  they  were  not  babies. 
Brother  was  eight  and  sister  was  three  years  old;  and 
these  were  mother's  children,  not  her  very  own.  So 
without  compunction,  Keturah  took  the  little  stranger 
into  her  heart  and  kept  him  there. 

At  first  she  wanted  to  take  the  child  into  her  own 
home,  but  that  her  mother  would  not  hear  of.  Her  own 
three  children  were  all  that  her  little  house  would  hold ; 
and  if  Keturah  were  to  begin  adopting  the  Magrath 
children  there  would  be  no  end  to  the  little  ones  who 
might  be  added  to  her  household.  So  Mrs.  Bain  said, 
"No,"  very  decidedly,  to  Keturah's  request,  and  the  girl 
had  to  leave  her  foster  child  with  Mother  Magrath.  But 
she  did  not  love  it  the  less  nor  give  it  the  less  care  on  that 
account.  She  used  all  her  pennies  to  buy  nice,  fresh  milk 
for  her  baby,  and  made  all  its  clothing,  and  was  to  it  a 
sweet  and  loving  mother. 

In  the  summer  she  would  take  her  brother  and  her 
sister  and  the  baby  and  go  down  to  the  river  side,  and, 
while  the  boy  and  girl  were  playing  on  the  dock,  Keturah 
would  walk  up  and  down  with  the  baby  in  her  arms  until 


The  Reason  Why 

he  went  to  sleep,  and  then  she  carried  him  to  a  cool,  dark 
place  under  the  dock,  where  she  had  made  a  bed  for  him 
with  straw,  and  laid  him  down  to  take  his  afternoon  nap. 
There,  breathing  the  pure  air  from  the  river,  the  child 
would  grow  rosy  and  strong,  and  his  little  mother  would 
sit  beside  him  (leaving  her  brother  and  sister  to  take  care 
of  themselves  up  above)  and  dream  of  what  her  baby 
boy  would  be  in  the  years  to  come — a  president,  at  the 
very  least,  she  thought. 

She  never  had  the  child  christened.  She  knew  nothing 
about  that,  and  Mother  Magrath  was  afraid  of  the  priests. 
Nor  did  Keturah  give  the  child  any  regular  name,  only 
pet  names,  such  as  mothers  give  their  babies.  So  it  came 
to  pass  that  a  child  whose  earthly  mother  cast  him  away, 
and  for  whom  the  heavenly  Mother  did  not  seem  to  care, 
found  his  place  in  a  little  girl's  heart,  and  so  was  kept 
alive. 

Things  went  on  in  this  way  for  two  years  and  more. 
The  baby  had  learned  to  walk  and  to  talk,  and  to  be  in 
mischief  every  minute,  and  then  something  happened. 
Keturah  could  no  longer  take  care  of  him.  She  had  to 
go  to  work  and  earn  money  to  provide  for  her  own  people. 
A  great  sorrow  had  come  to  Keturah;  but  baby  knew 
nothing  of  this.  He  only  knew  that  he  missed  his  little 
care-taker,  so  that  he  cried  after  her  in  the  morning  and 
hunted  for  her  in  the  street. 

He  was  becoming  so  troublesome  that  Mother  Ma- 
grath was  beginning  to  think  that  it  was  time  for  him  to 
go  to  the  blessed  Mary,  when,  by  a  lucky  chance,  he  saved 
himself  for  another,  if  not  a  better,  fate. 

One  morning,  when  he  was  crying  after  Keturah,  he 
strayed  as  far  as  Chatham  Street,  where  a  man,  hurrying 
up  the  street,  ran  over  him,  and  then,  by  the  way  of 


The  Greater  Love 

reparation,  picked  him  up  and  gave  him  a  bright,  silver 
half-dollar,  saying,  "There,  there,  baby;  don't  cry.  Give 
that  to  your  ma,  and  tell  her  to  buy  you  some  candy." 

Just  then  Mother  Magrath,  who  was  looking  for  the 
child,  came  along  and  took  him  from  the  man,  with  the 
money  in  his  hand.  The  man  told  her  to  take  better  care 
of  her  baby,  and  keep  him  out  of  the  street. 

But  Mother  Magrath  had  learned  something  more  to 
her  advantage  than  that.  She  knew  now  why  the  child 
had  been  left  to  her.  She  saw  at  once  that  he  was  able  not 
only  to  earn  his  own  living,  but  to  become  a  source  of 
income,  which  might  make  up  for  the  loss  of  her  business, 
which  had  come  to  a  sudden  end.  From  the  day  that  she 
found  him  in  the  street,  Mother  Magrath  carried  the 
child,  neatly  dressed,  with  his  face  washed  and  his  hair 
in  curl,  and  set  him  down  in  some  busy  street  and  let  him 
run.  In  a  few  moments  he  had  caught  his  victim,  and  his 
cry  of  warning  was  heard ;  he  was  under  the  feet  of  some 
man  who  was  glad  to  escape  the  wrath  of  Mrs.  Magrath 
by  paying  fifty  cents  or  a  dollar — nearly  always  a  dollar. 
In  this  way  the  child  never  earned  less  than  three  dollars 
a  day,  and  sometimes  as  much  as  five,  and  Mrs.  Magrath's 
bank  account  increased  accordingly.  The  baby's  way  of 
making  a  living  was  hard  and  hazardous ;  but  he  escaped 
with  his  life,  though  sometimes  sorely  bruised.  Keturah 
knew  nothing  of  all  this.  She  found  the  black  and  blue 
spots  on  his  body  at  night,  and  scolded  Mother  Magrath 
for  not  taking  better  care  of  him.  The  old  woman  was 
ready  with  excuses — the  baby  would  run  away,  and  she 
could  not  help  it ;  he  was  out  in  the  street  before  she  knew 
anything,  and  it  was  a  wonder  that  he  was  not  killed; 
all  of  which  was  true  enough.  Mother  Magrath  kept 
careful  watch  over  the  baby  for  her  own  sake  as  well  as 

8 


The  Reason  Why 

for  his.  He  was  her  bread-winner;  her  only  support  in 
the  world.  Baby  farming  had  become  too  dangerous  a 
business  to  be  carried  on  with  safety.  The  frequent 
deaths  among  the  children  attracted  the  attention  of  the 
public  authorities,  who  were  not  so  ready  as  little  Keturah 
to  accept  the  theory  that  the  Lord  took  them  to  the  blessed 
Mary,  but  were  strongly  inclined  to  charge  their  death 
upon  Mother  Magrath,  and  threatened  her  with  the  prison 
should  she  continue  her  way  of  life;  which  she  wisely 
abandoned  and  depended  wholly  upon  what  the  baby 
earned  by  his  falls. 

This  vocation  was  followed  until  the  child  became  a 
boy,  whom  busy  men  kicked  and  cuffed  out  of  their  way, 
when  a  new  method  of  opening  the  public  purse  was 
adopted.  Mother  Magrath  led  the  child,  thinly  clad,  by 
the  hand,  and  went  from  house  to  house  in  the  daytime, 
and  about  the  streets  at  night  begging  her  bread.  This, 
if  not  quite  so  profitable  as  the  baby's  falls,  yielded  not 
only  what  was  sufficient  for  her  daily  needs,  but  also  a 
little  for  the  bank. 

When  Keturah  learned  that  Mother  Magrath  was 
making  a  beggar  of  her  boy  she  was  very  angry,  and  when 
she  found  that  she  could  prevent  it  only  by  sending  mother 
and  child  to  prison,  she  was  broken-hearted.  She  knew 
that  the  prison  would  complete  the  ruin  that  the  street 
had  commenced,  so  she  had  to  hold  her  peace  and  bide  her 
time. 

Keturah  kept  careful  watch  over  the  child,  and  as  soon 
as  he  was  old  enough  she  persuaded  him  to  give  up  beg- 
ging and  go  to  work.  From  her  own  earnings  she  pur- 
chased the  outfit  of  a  bootblack  and  set  him  up  in  busi- 
ness. She  was  the  very  first  to  think  that  a  bootblack 
would  do  better  if  he  had  a  regular  stand  and  a  chair  for 


The  Greater  Love 

his  customers;  so  she  bought  a  chair  for  the  boy  and 
secured  from  Mr.  Cronin  the  right  to  place  the  stand  in 
front  of  his  saloon,  at  the  corner  of  Chatham  and  Mul- 
berry Streets.  This  saloon  was  the  resort  of  the  politi- 
cians of  that  neighborhood — as  Mr.  Cronin  was  the  ward 
alderman  and  the  ward  boss — and  so  was  a  very  desirable 
situation  for  such  a  business  as  that  which  Keturah  set 
up  for  her  foster  child. 

The  lad  became  very  popular,  and  soon  had  a  large 
and  profitable  clientage ;  and  Mrs.  Magrath,  to  whom  he 
brought  his  earnings,  discovered  to  her  amazement  that 
honest  work  paid  better  than  dishonest  work  or  begging. 
And  from  that  time,  with  the  exception  of  a  small  pension 
which  she  received  from  Saint  Nicholas  Church,  her  only 
source  of  income  was  what  the  boy  earned.  But  this  she 
cared  for  so  wisely  that  her  savings  in  the  bank  increased 
rapidly,  and  were  counted  by  the  thousand  instead  of  by 
the  hundred  dollars. 

It  was  at  this  time  of  his  life  that  the  boy  came  to  have 
a  name  of  his  own.  His  customers  called  him  Shinar, 
which  name  he  at  last  adopted,  and  greatly  increased  his 
fame  and  his  income  by  having  a  large  sign  printed  and 
put  at  the  back  of  his  chair  which  read,  "Here  is  where 
Shinar  shines  your  shoes." 

In  the  winter  time,  when  the  nights  were  dark  and 
cold,  Shinar,  at  the  request  of  Keturah,  came  to  the  night 
school,  and  there  the  writer  of  this  book  made  his  ac- 
quaintance, and,  through  him,  that  of  his  foster  mother. 
The  acquaintance  of  the  writer  with  this  remarkable 
woman  ripened  into  a  friendship  that  lasted  as  long  as 
she  lived.  He  had  not  known  her  for  a  great  while  before 
he  came  to  have  for  her  a  reverent  affection.  She  was,  in 
his  estimation,  one  of  those  whose  fate  it  is  to  bear  a  sin 

10 


The  Reason  Why 

and  a  sorrow  which  is  not  their  own,  and  which  is  brought 
upon  them  by  their  strong  affections.  Such  souls  as  hers 
are  born  into  this  world  to  love,  to  suffer,  and  to  die. 

Up  to  this  time  the  story  of  this  life  has  been  an  un- 
written tragedy,  and  if  the  writer  is  moved  to  write  it 
now,  it  is  not  for  her  sake  only,  but  for  the  sake  of  an- 
other, with  whom  her  life  became  strangely  involved,  and 
who  on  her  account  was  made  liable  to  a  dishonorable 
charge,  which  lost  him  his  place  in  life  and  branded  his 
name  with  a  shame  which  it  has  borne  to  this  day. 

The  reader  of  this  history  will  find  out  why  it  .was  that 
a  clergyman,  who,  up  to  his  fortieth  year,  was  irreproach- 
able in  his  calling,  honored  as  a  scholar,  and  almost  wor- 
shipped as  a  preacher,  suddenly  fell  from  the  high  place 
which  he  held  in  the  world,  was  divorced  by  his  wife 
and  deposed  by  his  bishop,  and  passed  the  rest  of  his  life 
in  obscurity,  and  was  buried  in  a  nameless  grave. 


BOOK    FIRST 
»  w 

Keturah  Bain 


The  Greater  Love 


CHAPTER  I 

KETURAH 

ONE  day  late  in  the  month  of  April,  in  the  year  1871, 
a  little  after  the  hour  of  noon,  a  woman  turned  from 
Chatham  Street  into  Mulberry,  in  the  City  of  New  York. 
As  she  hurried  along  the  street,  to  escape  the  rain  that 
was  beginning  to  fall,  there  was  nothing  in  her  appearance 
to  attract  attention.  She  was  of  medium  height  and 
slender  build,  and  seemed  to  belong  to  that  order  of 
working  women  who  throng  in  and  out  of  the  shops  of 
the  city  in  the  morning  and  the  evening.  She  was  dressed, 
as  is  usual  with  her  class,  in  simple  black — a  close-fitting 
serge  dress  and  a  jacket  of  the  same  material;  on  her 
head  she  wore  a  plain  round  hat,  in  which,  as  the  only 
ornament  she  allowed  herself,  was  a  cluster  of  red  flowers, 
giving  a  bit  of  color  to  what  was  otherwise  severely  plain. 

When  she  was  a  little  way  up  Mulberry  Street,  just  in 
the  Bend,  she  stopped  in  front  of  a  passageway  that  ran 
between  two  high  tenements  to  some  court  in  the  rear. 
As  she  paused,  she  turned  toward  the  street,  and  there 
passed  over  her  face  an  expression  of  annoyance  which 
quickly  changed  to  sadness ;  then,  as  if  calling  up  her 
courage,  she  drew  in  two  deep,  spasmodic  breaths,  which 

15 


The  Greater  Love 

were  almost  sobs,  and  turned  about  and  went  quickly 
through  the  passage  into  the  court  beyond. 

At  the  far  end  of  the  court,  which  was  about  thirty 
feet  deep,  was  a  cottage  which  seemed  greatly  out  of  place 
in  this  dark  corner  of  the  city.  It  was  such  a  house  as  you 
find  to-day  on  far-away  country  roads  in  New  England, 
under  the  shadow  of  elms,  with  hollyhocks  in  the  door- 
yard.  Once  it  had  been  white  with  green  blinds,  as  be- 
came a  New  England  cottage,  but  that  was  long  ago. 
Now  the  grime  of  the  city  was  upon  it,  and  it  was  a  dirty 
brown.  The  woman  went  toward  it  with  her  eyes  on 
the  ground,  as  if  afraid  to  look  upon  its  dismal  aspect; 
and,  hastily  opening  the  door,  entered  and  shut  her- 
self in. 

The  door  opened  into  a  small  hallway,  out  of  which  a 
flight  of  stairs  ascended  to  rooms  above.  Both  hallway 
and  stairs  were  uncarpeted,  and  were  worn  and  soiled. 
Hanging  her  hat  on  a  peg  in  the  wall,  the  woman  went  to 
the  rear  of  the  hallway,  and  entered  a  room  on  the  right. 
This  room  was  evidently  the  dining-room,  as  it  was  chiefly 
occupied  by  a  large  table,  upon  which  were  unwashed 
dishes  and  broken  food.  At  the  sight  of  this  disorder,  the 
expression  of  annoyance  changing  into  sadness  was  once 
more  seen  upon  the  face  of  this  woman. 

The  reason  of  that  expression  was  revealed  by  the 
face  itself.  It  was  a  face  highly  refined  and  delicate,  as 
strangely  out  of  place  in  its  surroundings  as  the  cottage 
itself.  It  was  a  New  England  face,  such  as  one  sees  in 
the  pictures  of  Puritan  maidens,  looking  wistfully  at  de- 
parting ships  as  they  sail  away  to  the  far-off  English 
homes.  There  was  that  same  pathetic,  far-away  look  out 
of  the  wide-open  gray  eyes ;  the  same  sad  brow,  the  same 
delicate  nose,  the  same  sensitive  mouth  and  sharp-pointed 

16 


Keturah 

chin  which  one  looks  for  in  the  Priscillas  and  Prudences 
of  New  England.  Her  hair  once  black,  now  tinged  with 
gray,  was  combed  over  the  ears  and  gathered  into  a  knot 
low  down  over  the  neck.  It  was  abundant  and  beautiful 
hair,  none  the  less  beautiful  because  of  the  sheen  of  the 
silver  that  was  in  it.  The  complexion  of  this  woman  was 
without  color,  and  yet  it  was  neither  pale  nor  brown,  but 
was  of  that  chalky  whiteness  which  is  occasioned  by  an 
indoor  life,  with  its  attendant  absence  of  sunlight. 

As  she  stood  looking  disconsolately  at  that  untidy 
table,  she  seemed  a  careworn  woman  of  forty  years ;  her 
brow  was  deeply  lined  and  there  were  wrinkles  under  her 
eyes,  and  yet  there  was  something  about  her  general  bear- 
ing that  denied  her  age  and  was  almost  girlish — a  name- 
less charm  and  grace  of  womanhood  that  needed  only 
favorable  circumstances  to  make  this  gray-haired  woman 
young  enough  for  love  and  happiness.  In  fact,  she  was 
that  morning  only  thirty  years  old.  Sorrow  and  care,  not 
years,  had  turned  her  hair  and  wrinkled  her  face. 

After  standing  a  few  moments  in  distressing  hesita- 
tion, she  put  down  a  small  basket,  which  all  this  time  she 
had  been  holding  in  her  hand,  placing  it  on  a  shelf  over 
the  stove — for  the  room  was  both  kitchen  and  dining- 
room — and  drawing  a  deep  sigh,  and  saying  under  her 
breath,  "Poor  mother,  poor  mother,"  she  tied  on  an  apron 
and  went  to  work,  quickly  clearing  away  the  table  and 
washing  and  drying  the  dishes. 

As  she  was  finishing  her  task  the  door  opened  and 
another  woman,  much  larger  and  older  than  she,  entered 
the  room.  The  new-comer  was  a  worn  and  faded  blonde, 
who  had  been  handsome  in  her  day,  but  was  now  a  sad 
wreck.  It  was  not  so  much  her  age  as  dissipation  of  some 
kind  that  had  made  her  what  she  was.  Her  hair  was  that 

17 


The  Greater  Love 

lifeless  yellow  hair  that  never  changes  color;  her  face 
was  flabby,  as  if  bloated  in  some  unnatural  way ;  her  large 
brown  eyes  were  lustreless  and  uneasy,  shutting  and  open- 
ing constantly  as  if  pained  by  the  light.  This  older 
woman  was  dressed  in  a  loose  cotton  wrapper,  and  seemed 
dazed,  as  if  she  had  just  risen  from  sleep. 

As  the  younger  woman  looked  at  her,  that  expression 
of  sad  annoyance  came  over  her  face  once  more  and  settled 
there.  The  two  women  gazed  at  each  other  for  a  moment 
in  silence.  The  older  woman  spoke  first,  in  a  low,  husky, 
far-away  voice,  saying,  in  a  tone  of  astonishment : 

"Keturah,  is  it  you,  home  from  the  shop?  I  didn't 
know  it  was  so  late ;  I've  been  asleep.  What  time  is  it  ?" 

"It  is  not  quite  one  o'clock,  mother." 

"Not  one  o'clock  ?  What  ever  in  the  world  brings  you 
home  before  one  o'clock?  Did  you  forget  your  dinner?" 

"No,  mother;  my  dinner  is  there  on  the  shelf,  in 
the  basket;  I  haven't  eaten  it  yet.  I  don't  care  for  it. 
I'm  not  hungry  to-day." 

"What  made  you  leave  the  shop,  then  ?  Has  anything 
happened  ?" 

"Nothing  unusual,  mother." 

"Keturah !"  cried  the  older  woman,  "what  makes  you 
torment  me  so?  Can't  you  tell  me  what  you  came  home 
for?" 

"Maybe  I  came  home  to  wash  up  the  breakfast  dishes." 

At  this  the  older  woman  sat  down  and  began  to  cry. 

"You  know,  Keturah,"  she  said,  "that  I  am  sick  and 
couldn't  work  this  mornin'.  I  was  just  comin'  down  now 
to  do  up  the  dishes,  not  lookin'  for  you  till  night,  and 
nobody  home  but  me.  But  you  don't  care  about  me  being 
sick ;  nobody  cares.  I  wish  I  was  dead,  I  do." 

"Never  mind,  mother  dear,"  said  Keturah,  kneeling 

18 


Keturah 

down  and  putting  her  arms  around  her  mother ;  "I  do  care 
and  am  sorry  that  I  spoke  as  I  did.  I  know  you  are  sick, 
and  I  am  sorry  for  that,  too.  If  you  want  to  know  why  I 
am  at  home  this  time  of  the  day  I  suppose  I  must  tell  you. 
I'm  on  half-time  again ;  that  is  all." 

These  words  of  the  daughter,  instead  of  soothing  the 
mother,  seemed  to  plunge  her  into  deeper  grief. 

"On  half-time  again,  on  half-time  again,"  she  cried, 
rocking  in  her  chair.  "Whatever  will  we  do?  Father 
doin'  nothin'  and  Benny  out  o'  work;  whatever  will  we 
do?" 

"There,  there,  mother,"  said  Keturah,  soothingly. 
"Don't  cry.  We  will  get  on  some  way  or  other.  It  isn't 
the  first  time  I  have  been  on  half-time,  you  know." 

"Oh,  I  know  you  always  take  me  up  that  way;  you 
never  think  I  know  anything.  How  does  Rosenthal  think 
we  are  goin'  to  live,  and  you  on  half-time?" 

"I  don't  suppose  he  thinks  anything  about  it,  mother. 
There  is  no  work  in  the  shop,  and  if  there  is  no  work  he 
can't  keep  us ;  that  wouldn't  be  business." 

"But  couldn't  you  find  another  place,  Keturah,  where 
you'd  have  steady  work  ?" 

"No,  mother.  When  it  is  dull  in  one  shop  it  is  dull  in 
all,  and  besides  I  have  been  with  Mr.  Rosenthal  so  many 
years  that  I  am  sure  of  a  place  with  him  as  long  as  I  can 
work.  He  is  very  good  to  me,  and  whenever  there  is 
work  to  be  done  I  have  it." 

"There  you  are  again,  Keturah,  standin'  up  for  that 
skinflint  Jew,  that  grinds  you  down  to  the  last  cent." 

"It  isn't  right  of  you,  mother,  to  talk  that  way.  We've 
had  our  living  from  Mr.  Rosenthal  for  nearly  ten  years, 
and  very  few  Christians  would  be  as  kind  to  me  as  he  has 
been,  even  if  he  is  a  Jew.  But,  mother,  don't  let's  talk 

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The  Greater  Love 

any  more  about  it.  Come,  let  me  put  you  back  to  bed 
again,  and  I  will  stop  here  until  Abigail  comes  home. 
She  and  I  will  talk  it  all  over  and  see  what  is  best  to  be 
done." 

The  mother  suffered  herself  to  be  led  up-stairs  to  her 
room  and  soon  fell  into  a  dead,  heavy  sleep.  Keturah 
went  down-stairs,  and  with  a  sad  heart  waited  for  her 
sister,  Abigail,  to  come  hgrne  from  school.  Abigail  was 
the  brightness  of  her  life,  and  the  hope  of  the  household. 


CHAPTER  II 

HER  FATHER 

KETURAH  BAIN  was  the  eldest  living  child  of  Joshua 
Bain  and  Abigail  Skinner,  his  wife.  Joshua  Bain  was  the 
son  of  Ebenezer  Bain,  beyond  whom  it  is  not  necessary 
for  the  purposes  of  this  narrative  to  trace  the  family  his- 
tory. 

Joshua  Bain  was  born  in  the  village  or  town  of  Fal- 
mouth,  on  Cape  Cod,  in  the  State  of  Massachusetts,  in  the 
year  1816.  His  early  life  was  the  life  of  the  Puritan  boy 
at  the  beginning  of  the  last  century.  It  was  a  life  of  hard 
work  and  hard  blows.  The  severe  discipline  of  the  New 
England  household  made  this  world  a  sorry  place  for 
little  children.  They  were  set  to  work  when  nature  meant 
them  to  play,  and  were  ruled  with  the  rod  where  they 
needed  the  gentle  guidance  of  the  eye.  And  they  endured 
what  no  race  of  children  before  or  since  have  had  to  put 
up  with,  the  horrors  of  the  Puritan  Sunday.  From  sun- 
down Saturday  night  until  the  same  hour  Sunday  even- 
ing every  natural  instinct  of  the  childish  nature  was  out- 
raged, and  in  the  name  of  the  loving  Father  it  was  sub- 
jected to  a  system  of  mental  and  bodily  torture,  from 
which  the  children  of  this  generation  have  happily 
escaped. 

Ebenezer  Bain,  the  father  of  Joshua,  was  a  Puritan  of 

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The  Greater  Love 

the  old  type — stern  and  cold,  a  hearty  hater  and  a  domestic 
tyrant.  He  married  one  of  those  sweet-faced  New  Eng- 
land women,  and  by  her  had  four  daughters  and  one  son, 
Joshua,  the  father  of  Keturah.  By  the  principle  of  re- 
action, that  rules  so  largely  in  nature,  the  child  of  the 
stern  Ebenezer  was  born  with  a  merry  heart,  and  almost 
from  the  day  of  his  birth  there  was  warfare  between  him 
and  his  father.  The  rod  was  his  daily  portion  as  a  child, 
and  the  horsewhip  when  he  was  older.  But  nothing  could 
check  the  flow  of  his  spirits,  and  as  he  grew  toward  man- 
hood his  humor  did  not  spare  the  sanctities  of  religion. 
The  long,  tiresome  sermons  of  the  ministers,  the  sancti- 
mony of  the  elders,  and  the  hypocrisy  of  the  deacons  ex- 
cited his  mirth  and  ridicule;  so  that  the  saying  went 
abroad  in  Falmouth  that,  "There  was  more  fun  than  faith 
in  Joshua  Bain."  In  such  as  he  the  reaction  against 
Puritanism,  which  is  now  at  its  height,  had  its  beginning. 

As  the  boy  grew  older,  the  antagonism  between  him- 
self and  his  father  was  intensified  until  it  culminated  in 
one  of  those  dreadful  scenes  which  made  the  home  life  of 
New  England  in  the  early  part  of  the  nineteenth  century 
so  terrible  and  so  tragical. 

Among  the  girls  of  the  village  was  a  maiden  of  sixteen 
years  named  Abigail  Skinner.  Now,  if  there  was  one  man 
in  all  the  world  whom  Ebenezer  Bain  hated  more  than 
another,  it  was  Joseph  Skinner,  the  father  of  Abigail. 
This  man  combined  in  himself  all  the  qualities  that  Eben- 
ezer Bain  most  despised  and  abhorred.  Bain  was  a  violent 
Democrat,  while  Skinner  was  a  Federalist ;  almost  a  Tory, 
in  fact.  Skinner  was  an  Arminian,  which  made  him,  in 
the  eyes  of  the  strict  Calvinist,  Bain,  no  better  than  an 
infidel.  Skinner  and  Bain  were  rivals  in  business,  and 
Skinner  was  the  more  prosperous  of  the  two,  which  fact 

22 


Her  Father 

kept  the  anger  of  Ebenezer  Bain  at  white  heat.  With  the 
usual  perversity  of  youth  in  the  matters  of  love,  Joshua 
Bain,  out  of  all  the  girls  in  the  village,  had  eyes  only  for 
Abigail  Skinner  and,  in  spite  of  parental  protest,  became 
her  steady  company.  The  father  stormed  and  raged,  all 
to  no  purpose.  Every  Sunday  night  Joshua  Bain  and 
Abigail  Skinner  sat  in  silence  together  in  the  parlor  of  the 
Skinner  cottage — as  was  the  custom  of  New  England 
lovers  in  those  days — and  might  have  been  called  in  meet- 
ing and  married  at  home  and  lived  in  Falmouth  all  their 
days  had  it  not  been  for  Joshua  Bain's  love  of  fun  and 
foolishness. 

He  and  Abigail  both  sang  in  the  choir  at  the  meeting- 
house. The  singers  were  in  the  gallery  at  the  back  of  the 
church ;  the  stairs  leading  to  the  gallery  were  winding 
stairs  and  it  was  dark  there.  One  Sunday  morning,  in 
the  fall  of  1836,  when  the  apples  had  been  gathered  and 
the  boats  had  come  home  from  the  fisheries,  the  people  of 
Falmouth  were  gathered  in  the  meeting-house  for  the  pur- 
pose of  divine  worship.  They  were  awaiting  the  minister 
in  that  awful  stillness  that  prevails  in  a  New  England 
house  of  God,  before  the  man  of  God  begins  to  speak.  To 
the  utter  horror  of  the  people  that  solemn  silence  was 
broken  by  what  was  plainly  the  sound  of  a  kiss,  followed 
by  a  girlish  giggle  and  low,  manly  laughter.  The  sound 
came  from  the  rear  of  the  church.  On  the  instant  every 
person  in  that  congregation  turned  the  head  to  see  who 
had  so  desecrated  the  house  of  God ;  but  nothing  was  to 
be  seen  that  explained  the  mystery.  Just  then  the  min- 
ister entered  the  pulpit  and  the  congregation  turned  to- 
ward him  again  and  sat,  stern  of  face  and  rigid  of  form, 
through  the  prayers,  the  singing,  and  the  sermon.  It  did 
not  matter  what  was  said  and  sung  that  day,  so  far  as  the 

23 


The  Greater  Love 

people  were  concerned ;  they  had  no  thought  for  anything 
but  the  outrage  that  had  been  committed  in  the  holy  place. 
Nothing  like  it  had  ever  happened  in  Falmouth. 

Immediately  after  the  service,  when  the  people  had 
been  dismissed,  there  was  a  meeting  of  the  elders  to  find 
out  who  had  wrought  this  folly  in  Israel.  The  members 
of  the  choir  were  brought  before  this  body  of  judges  and 
commanded  to  reveal  the  names  of  the  culprits.  After 
some  hesitation  one  of  the  Bain  girls  said : 

"It  was  nothing,  only  brother  Josh  kissed  Abby  Skin- 
ner in  the  turning  of  the  stairs." 

At  this  Ebenezer  Bain  rose  up  in  his  wrath  and  asked 
the  assembled  elders,  as  a  favor,  that  he  might  be  permit- 
ted to  deal  with  the  wickedness  of  his  own  son.  This  re- 
quest was  granted  him,  and  the  father  and  the  son  walked 
home  in  silence  together.  The  face  of  the  father  was 
flushed  with  anger;  the  son's  face  was  white  and  still. 
When  they  entered  the  living  room  the  mother  of  the  boy 
was  waiting  for  them,  pale  and  trembling.  She  came  for- 
ward and  laid  her  hand  upon  her  husband's  shoulder,  and 
said: 

"Ebenezer,  forgive  the  boy ;  he  is  our  only  son." 

"Forgive  him!"  cried  the  father,  now  mad  with  pas- 
sion ;  "forgive  him  who  has  shamed  me  before  the  whole 
congregation  of  God's  people,  who  has  dared  to  desecrate, 
with  his  libidinous  folly,  the  holy  place  of  worship  and 
the  sacred  day  of  the  Lord !  Forgive  him !  God  do  so  to 
me  and  more  also,  if  I  do  not  punish  him  so  that  he  will 
remember  it  to  the  day  of  his  death.  You  profaner  of 
holy  things,  take  off  your  coat." 

"Father — father — Ebenezer!"  cried  the  mother,  put- 
ting her  arms  around  her  husband's  neck,  "don't  whip  my 
boy  1  He  is  my  boy,  and  I  will  not  have  you  ruin  his  soul 

24 


Her  Father 

by  your  anger.  It  was  only  a  kiss,  only  a  kiss,  and,  Eben- 
ezer,  don't  you  remember,  you  kissed  me  before  we  were 
married !"  And  the  poor  woman  struggled  to  kiss  the  hard 
lips  that  had  not  kissed  hers  for  years,  if  so  be  she  might 
soften  the  hard  heart  and  save  her  boy.  But  the  man  was 
not  to  be  stayed  in  his  passion.  He  threw  his  wife  aside 
and  cried : 

"Boy,  do  you  hear  me?    Take  off  your  coat!" 

"Yes,  father,"  said  the  young  man,  "I  hear  you,  and 
I  will  obey  you.  I  was  foolish,  I  did  wrong;  but  not  so 
wrong  as  you  are  doing  now,  breaking  my  mother's  heart 
with  your  wicked  anger.  You  may  whip  me  if  you 
please,  I  am  used  to  that ;  you  have  done  nothing  but  whip 
me  since  I  was  a  little  boy,  but  it  is  the  last  time.  Strike 
me  one  blow  and  I  leave  your  house  and  renounce  your 
God  forever." 

"Silence, sir, silence!"  cried  the  father.  "Mary,"  he  said 
to  one  of  the  daughters,  all  of  whom  were  looking  on  this 
scene  with  horror  on  their  lips  and  terror  in  their  hearts, 
"Mary,  go  to  the  barn  and  bring  me  the  horsewhip ;  boy, 
take  off  your  coat." 

"No,  father,  not  here;  not  where  mother  can  see  it. 
I  will  go  with  you  to  the  barn;"  and  going  up  to  his 
mother  he  took  her  in  his  arms  and  held  her  for  a  moment 
and  kissed  her  and  said : 

"Good-bye,  mother,  good-bye,"  and  went  out  of  the 
door  and  walked  to  the  barn,  followed  by  his  father.  Soon 
the  women  heard  the  terrible  sound  of  the  whip  falling  on 
human  flesh,  but  no  cry  was  heard ;  the  sufferer  bore  his 
punishment  in  silence. 

In  a  little  while  the  wrath  of  the  father  was  spent,  and 
he  returned  alone  to  the  house ;  the  boy  did  not  come  with 
him.  He  never  came  again.  He  staid  a  little  while  in 


The  Greater  Love 

the  barn,  feeling  the  burning  stripes  in  his  flesh,  and  the 
burning  shame  in  his  heart,  and  then  and  there  he  re- 
nounced his  father's  house  and  his  father's  God  and  went 
away. 

In  an  hour  his  mother  crept  out  to  the  barn  to  see  him, 
but  he  was  gone  and  she  never  saw  him  again,  for  in  three 
months  she  was  dead  and  buried. 


26 


CHAPTER  III 

HER  MOTHER 

WHEN  Joshua  Bain  disappeared  from  Falmouth,  Abi- 
gail Skinner  disappeared  also.  Nobody,  except  Joseph 
Skinner,  knew  when  they  went  away  or  where  they  had 
gone  to,  and  Joseph  Skinner  held  his  peace. 

On  that  Sunday  night,  after  his  father  left  him, 
Joshua  Bain  put  on  his  coat  and  went  to  see  his  girl.  He 
walked  bravely  through  the  street  so  that  no  one  should 
know  that  he,  Joshua  Bain,  had  been  whipped  like  a  cur 
by  his  father.  When  he  reached  the  Skinner  cottage,  he 
found  Abigail  waiting  for  him  in  fear  and  trembling. 
She  knew  something  dreadful  had  happened.  Joshua 
came  in  as  usual  and  kissed  her,  as  he  always  did  on  Sun- 
day night,  and  sat  down  to  keep  company  with  her.  At 
this  Abigail  breathed  more  freely ;  nothing  had  happened 
after  all. 

In  a  few  moments  she  was  sadly  disabused  of  her  con- 
fidence. The  young  man,  unable  to  restrain  himself  any 
longer,  burst  forth  into  a  passion  of  weeping  and  cursing. 
All  the  bitterness  of  all  the  hard  years  of  his  hard  life 
found  expression  in  a  frightful  storm  of  rage  and  hate. 
He  cursed  his  father,  and  he  cursed  his  father's  God ;  he 
would  never  again,  he  said,  set  his  foot  in  the  house  of  his 
father  or  the  house  of  his  God ;  he  had  no  father  and  he 

27 


The  Greater  Love 

had  no  God.  He  had  done  nothing  but  give  an  innocent 
kiss  to  an  innocent  girl,  and  he  had  been  beaten  like  a 
dog.  He  did  not  care  for  God;  he  would  rather  go  to 
hell  any  day  than  be  with  him.  Was  a  kiss  sacrilege  and 
was  laughter  an  insult?  It  would  be  better  for  the  world 
if  there  were  less  praying  and  preaching  and  whipping, 
and  more  laughing  and  kissing. 

So  the  young  man  stormed  and  blasphemed,  until  the 
rage  of  his  heart  was  spent.  Joseph  Skinner  heard  him 
and  came  into  the  room,  and  then  Joshua,  having  quieted 
down,  told  them  all  that  had  happened,  and  he  told  them 
also  that  he  was  going  to  leave  Falmouth  forever.  He 
would  not  live  any  longer  in  the  same  town  Or  state  with 
his  father ;  he  was  afraid  he  would  kill  him,  and  he  begged 
Abigail  to  go  with  him.  He  would  try  and  be  good  to 
her ;  they  could  go  to  New  York  and  make  their  way,  he 
was  sure.  Would  not  she  marry  him  at  once  and  go  with 
him  ?  Carried  away  by  his  vehemence,  the  girl  consented, 
as  did  her  father. 

They  put  Joshua  to  bed,  and  Joseph  Skinner,  whose 
wife  was  dead,  washed  his  back,  which  was  red  and 
swollen  with  his  whipping,  with  salt  and  water,  and  then 
rubbed  it  with  whale  oil. 

Early  the  next  morning  he  started  with  the  young 
people  for  Boston,  which  they  reached  in  three  days,  and 
there  Joshua  Bain  and  Abigail  Skinner  were  made  man 
and  wife;  Joshua  was  twenty  and  Abigail  sixteen  years 
old. 

Joseph  Skinner  gave  them  two  hundred  dollars  and 
they  sailed  from  the  port  of  Boston  for  New  York,  to 
enter  upon  a  new  and  strange  life. 

Abigail  Skinner,  who  had  so  early  and  so  suddenly 
been  forced  into  the  life  and  duties  of  womanhood,  was 

28 


Her  Mother 

hardly  equal  to  the  task.  She  was  not  the  kind  of  stuff 
of  which  heroines  are  made.  She  was  a  tall,  large  woman 
of  the  blonde  type — the  sort  of  woman  that  nature  builds 
for  shady  nooks  and  cosy  corners  and  uneventful  lives ; 
the  kind  of  woman  that  sours  in  adversity  and  frets  under 
discomfort. 

On  the  way  to  New  York  she  was  very  sick,  and  when 
she  reached  the  great  city  she  was  taken  with  such  a 
longing  for  the  quiet  home  in  Falmouth  that  she  nearly 
died.  Her  love  for  Joshua  Bain  had  been  but  a  girl's 
fancy  and  it  soon  passed  away,  and  from  morning  till 
night  she  fretted  and  worried  until  the  poor  man  was 
well-nigh  distracted.  He  was,  as  he  promised,  a  good 
husband  to  her,  bearing  with  her  infirmities  and  trying 
to  make  her  happy. 

In  a  year  the  first  child  was  born.  Its  little  life  be- 
ginning thus  in  excitement  and  loneliness,  it  was  born 
without  the  power  to  live,  and  fortunately  died  in  a  few 
weeks.  In  two  years  more  another  child  was  born,  a 
little  girl,  whom  her  father  called  after  the  name  of  his 
mother,  Keturah.  And  as  she  grew  up,  the  child  seemed 
to  reproduce  on  earth  the  life  of  that  sad,  sweet-faced, 
gentle  woman,  who  had  died  of  a  broken  heart  in  Fal- 
mouth. From  the  very  first  she,  too,  was  sad,  sweet- 
faced,  and  tender-hearted.  Her  father  loved  her  and  she 
loved  her  father.  Four  other  children  were  born  in  the 
course  of  time,  two  of  whom  died,  leaving  Keturah,  Ben- 
jamin, and  Abigail,  named  for  her  mother,  as  the  children 
of  the  household. 

The  mother,  occupied  with  her  family  cares  and  used 
to  the  ways  of  the  city,  ceased  to  pine  for  her  New  Eng- 
land home,  and  grew  to  be  a  very  handsome  woman,  fair 
and  large,  that  type  of  English  woman  one  sees  on  the 

29 


The  Greater  Love 

farms  in  Devonshire — women  who  move  about  as  the 
cattle  do  and  are  quiet  as  long  as  they  are  well  cared  for. 
The  wife  of  Joshua  Bain  had  the  face  and  figure  of  these 
women,  but  she  lacked  their  repose.  The  keen  American 
air,  while  it  had  not  been  able  to  give  her  energy,  had 
succeeded  in  souring  her  disposition  and  she  was  that 
saddest  of  all  created  things,  an  unhappy,  discontented 
woman. 


CHAPTER  IV 

CHILDHOOD  DAYS 

UNTIL  she  was  fourteen  years  old,  Keturah  Bain  had 
a  comparatively  happy  life.  Her  father  was  the  owner  of 
a  small  vessel  and  was  engaged  in  the  coasting  trade  up 
and  down  the  Sound.  He  carried  goods  from  the  city  to 
the  towns  along  the  shore,  and  brought  the  produce  from 
the  country  to  New  York.  His  business  was  fairly  pros- 
perous, and  he  was  a  hale  and  hearty  sailor-man.  In  the 
winter,  when  his  own  sloop  was  laid  up,  he  would  make 
a  voyage  as  mate,  or  even  before  the  mast,  down  to  the 
West  Indies,  and  from  there  he  would  bring  the  children 
coral  trinkets  and  tropical  fruits. 

It  was  during  this  period  of  his  life  that  he  made  a 
home  for  himself  and  family  in  the  Bend  of  Mulberry 
Street.  In  those  days  Mulberry  Street,  while  not  fashion- 
able, was  still  very  respectable.  It  was  inhabited  by  small 
merchants  and  tradesmen  and  mechanics.  Here  Joshua 
Bain  built  his  house ;  a  New  England  cottage,  with  queer 
gables  and  dormer  windows;  it  was  white  with  green 
blinds.  The  house  was  set  far  back  in  the  yard  and  an  elm 
was  planted  close  to  the  gate,  and  in  the  summer  and  fall 
hollyhocks,  larkspurs,  and  golden-rod  bloomed  before  the 
door.  It  was  a  pretty  home,  and  Keturah  made  herself 
happy  caring  for  the  flowers  in  the  garden  and  helping 
her  mother  in  the  house. 


The  Greater  Love 

But  the  great  delight  of  her  childhood  was  the  river 
and  the  boat  on  the  river.  The  blood  of  generations  of 
seafaring  men  was  in  her  veins,  and  she  loved  nothing 
better  than  to  go  down  in  the  evening  when  the  tide  was 
coming  in  and  watch  the  waves  chase  each  other  like 
children  at  play.  In  the  summer  time,  when  she  was  old 
enough,  and  there  was  no  school,  her  father  would  take 
her  with  him  up  the  Sound.  These  were  to  her  days  of 
delight.  She  would  sit  for  long  hours  and  watch  the 
sails  flap  in  the  wind,  and  when  she  was  tired  of  that 
would  go  and  look  over  the  side  of  the  boat  and  see  the 
water  run  by.  She  loved  nothing  better  than  to  cook  for 
her  father  and  eat  her  meals  with  him  in  the  snug  little 
cabin,  and  at  night  she  was  rocked  to  sleep  by  the  motion 
of  the  ship,  and  was  hushed  by  the  music  of  the  waves 
beating  against  the  port-hole. 

When  the  boat  landed  at  some  quaint  old  town,  on  the 
shores  of  Long  Island,  or  in  the  State  of  Connecticut,  the 
child  would  wander  about  and  dream  of  herself  as  living 
in  such  a  town  as  that.  Her  mother  had  sung  to  her  the 
praises  of  Falmouth,  and  she  always  thought  of  such 
towns  as  the  nicest  places  in  the  world  to  live  in. 

Keturah  was  educated  in  the  public  school,  which  had 
just  then  come  into  existence,  and  she  was  as  happy  in 
her  school  as  she  was  by  the  riverside.  She  was  from  the 
first  a  lover  of  books,  and  would  read  all  that  she  could 
lay  her  hands  on.  There  was  one  book  which  she  never 
read.  Her  father  would  never  allow  a  Bible  in  his  house. 
Neither  did  Keturah  often  go  to  church  or  Sunday-school. 
She  grew  up  without  any  knowledge  of  that  great  system 
of  religion,  in  the  midst  of  which  she  lived.  She  knew 
that  there  were  churches,  and  that  people  talked  of  God, 
but  that  did  not  concern  her.  She  lived  her  life  without 


Childhood  Days 

any  hope  of  heaven,  nor  fear  of  hell.  Her  mother  had 
her  say  her  prayers  when  she  was  little  and  she  learned 
a  few  simple  hymns ;  but  when-  she  questioned  her  father 
about  it  he  laughed  and  said  that  he  guessed  if  we  would 
take  care  of  ourselves,  God  would  take  care  of  himself. 
So  little  Keturah  did  not  trouble  her  soul  with  the  reli- 
gious problems  of  her  day.  Predestination,  saving  grace, 
and  eternal  punishment  she  never  so  much  as  heard  of. 
Her  Sundays  were  like  her  week  days,  only  she  did  not 
go  to  school  and  had  more  time  at  the  river. 

Only  two  things  troubled  her ;  her  mother's  f retfulness 
and  Mrs.  Magrath's  children.  Why  her  mother  could 
not  be  happy  in  their  pretty  home,  and  why  children  were 
sent  to  Mrs.  Magrath  to  sicken  and  die,  were  problems 
that  sorely  perplexed  her  little  soul.  She  tried  to  solve 
them  in  a  practical  way,  doing  all  she  could  to  make  her 
mother  happy,  and  striving  to  quiet  the  cries  of  the  Ma- 
grath children.  So  the  days  of  her  childhood  passed, 
until  Shinar  came,  and  then  she-  began  to  be  a  woman. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  BEGINNING  OF  SORROWS 

WHEN  she  was  little  more  than  fourteen  years  old, 
Keturah  made  a  discovery  that  changed  her  at  once  from 
an  unconscious,  careless  child  into  a  conscious,  anxious 
woman. 

One  day  when  she  was  expecting  her  father  to  come 
home,  she  went  down  to  the  pier  to  watch  and  wait  for 
him.  Very  soon  she  saw  the  sloop  out  in  the  middle  of 
the  river  making  for  the  shore.  To  her  astonishment  the 
boat  did  not  take  its  proper  course,  but  veered  about  as 
if  it  were  in  the  hands  of  an  unskillful  pilot.  Several 
times  the  Falmouth,  for  that  was  the  name  of  the  boat, 
so  called  after  that  old,  never-to-be-forgotten  home,  just 
escaped  colliding  with  other  vessels.  Keturah  could  not 
comprehend  what  was  the  cause  of  this  strange  action. 
Her  father  was  one  of  the  best  steersmen  on  the  Sound, 
and  always  brought  his  little  ship  into  her  dock  in  grand 
style.  But  that  day  he  fumbled  as  if  he  had  never 
handled  a  wheel  before.  Keturah  was  lost  in  amazement 
as  she  saw  the  sloop  staggering  like  a  drunken  thing,  in- 
stead of  coming  straight  for  her  dock. 

At  last,  after  many  escapes  that  were  miraculous,  the 
Falmouth  was  tied  up  to  her  pier  and  Keturah  went 
aboard  to  see  what  was  the  trouble.  In  an  instant  the 
mystery  was  explained.  Her  father  was  drunk. 

35 


The  Greater  Love 

The  effect  of  this  discovery  upon  the  child  was  ap- 
palling. It  was  as  if  she  had  seen  the  sky  falling  and  the 
earth  going  to  pieces  under  her  feet.  She  had  loved  and 
reverenced  her  father  as  few  fathers  are  loved  and  rever- 
enced by  their  children.  He  represented  to  Keturah  all 
that  was  best  and  noblest  in  the  world.  His  patience  with 
her  mother,  his  gentleness  toward  his  children,  his  un- 
varying cheerfulness,  made  up  the  brightness  and  beauty 
of  her  life.  She  gave  to  him  the  admiration  and  the  wor- 
ship that  most  children  are  taught  to  give  to  their  heav- 
enly Father.  But  Keturah  had  never  heard  of  her  heav- 
enly Father;  her  earthly  father  was  her  only  father,  she 
had  no  other  God  but  him.  To  see  him  in  the  condition 
in  which  she  found  him  was  like  seeing  the  abomination 
of  desolation  in  the  holy  place. 

Living  where  she  did,  Keturah  could  not  help  seeing 
drunken  men  and  women,  and  they  excited  in  her  soul 
fear  and  disgust.  She  shrank  from  them  as  from  the  un- 
holy and  the  unclean.  As  she  watched  her  father  on  that 
fatal  day,  staggering  about  the  deck  of  his  vessel,  uncer- 
tain of  step,  inarticulate  of  speech,  she  grew  faint  and 
sick.  She  had  a  dizziness  in  her  head  and  a  nausea  she 
could  not  control.  She  sat  down  and  covered  her  eyes 
and  waited  for  strength  to  come  to  her.  She  did  not  dare 
to  speak  to  her  father.  She  did  not  want  him  to  know 
that  she  saw  his  condition. 

It  was,  indeed,  the  sad  fact,  that  Joshua  Bain  had  been 
slowly  drifting  into  drunkenness.  Everything  in  his  life 
laid  him  open  to  the  temptation  to  drink.  Drinking  was 
much  more  common  in  his  day  than  it  is  now ;  there  was 
very  little  or  no  temperance  sentiment  in  the  country. 
Everybody  drank  more  or  less,  and  men  did  not  drink 
wine  or  beer,  but  distilled  liquors,  such  as  whisky  or  rum. 

36 


The  Beginning  of  Sorrows 

When  Joshua  was  a  boy  he  saw  that  his  father,  though 
an  elder  of  the  church,  was  a  daily  drinker  of  Jamaica, 
and  when  he  was  a  young  man  he  always  had  something 
to  drink  of  an  evening.  It  was  the  custom  of  the  country. 

When  he  came  to  New  York  he  continued  the  habit 
of  his  youth;  he  was  a  constant,  but  not  an  excessive 
drinker.  But  the  habit  grew  on  him  as  he  grew  older. 
His  way  of  life  fostered  it.  His  business  carried  him 
into  taverns  where  drinking  was  a  matter  of  course,  and 
during  the  long,  lonesome  days,  when  the  sloop  was  be- 
calmed or  drifting  slowly  before  a  contrary  wind,  he  had 
nothing  to  while  away  the  time  but  his  glass  and  his  pipe. 

When  at  home  he  took  refuge  from  the  fretfulness  of 
his  wife  in  Michael  Cronin's  saloon,  and  no  one  could  be 
in  Cronin's  saloon  and  not  drink.  So  both  at  home  and 
abroad,  temptation  was  in  his  way  and  he  yielded  to  it. 

The  hard  discipline  of  his  early  years  had  not  strength- 
ened his  will ;  it  had  broken  it.  And  when  he  cast  himself 
loose  from  his  father's  house  and  his  father's  God  there 
was  no  restraining  force  in  his  life.  His  very  virtues  of 
sweetness  and  gentleness  and  good  nature  became  his 
snare.  He  did  not  try  to  rule  himself,  he  simply  drifted ; 
and  he  who  drifts  is  lost. 

Keturah  left  the  ship  without  speaking  to  her  father, 
nor  did  she  say  anything  at  home  of  what  she  had  seen. 
She  did  not  want  to  believe  that  it  was  true.  She  went 
about  her  work  with  eagerness  and  hurried  away  as  soon 
as  she  could  to  take  care  of  Shinar.  She  staid  away  from 
the  house  until  bedtime,  and  then  hurried  to  her  room 
and  went  to  bed,  thinking  that  if  she  could  only  go  to 
sleep,  she  would  wake  up  in  the  morning  and  find  that 
it  was  not  so. 

Late  in  the  night  Keturah  heard  her  father  come  home, 

37 


The  Greater  Love 

and  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  heard  him  speak 
roughly  to  her  mother.  When  he  came  in  the  house  he 
was  greeted  as  usual  with  dreary  complaining.  That 
fret,  fret,  fret,  which  is  the  torture  of  domestic  life,  was 
not  borne  meekly  that  night  as  it  had  always  been  before, 
but  was  resented  with  sullen  roughness  and  even  pro- 
fanity. When  Keturah  heard  the  voice  of  her  father 
swearing  at  her  mother,  she  covered  her  ears  with  the 
bedclothes  and  hiding  her  face  in  the  pillow,  lest  she 
should  disturb  Abigail,  who  slept  with  her,  she  cried 
herself  to  sleep. 

When  she  wakened  in  the  morning  she  had  a  sense 
of  strangeness,  as  if  she  were  in  another  world.  At  first 
she  did  not  know  what  had  happened,  but  in  a  moment 
the  memory  of  yesterday  came  back  to  her  as  a  wave  of 
misery,  and  she  turned  her  face  to  the  wall  and  closed 
her  eyes  and  tried  to  shut  it  out.  The  voice  of  her  mother 
calling  her  compelled  her  to  rise  from  bed,  dress  herself, 
and  go  down  stairs.  She  was  afraid  to  go  down;  she 
was  afraid  she  would  find  everything  changed.  Her  very 
fear,  however,  made  her  hurry.  She  wanted  to  see  and 
know  the  worst.  When  she  came  down  stairs  and  went 
out  of  doors,  she  was  astonished  to  find  everything  just 
as  it  had  been ;  there  was  the  tree  by  the  gate,  and  the 
flowers  beside  the  path.  The  sun  was  shining  and  the 
birds  were  singing  and  the  street  was  full  of  people  going 
to  work.  Keturah  could  not  understand  why  everything 
else  should  remain  as  it  was,  when  her  own  life  had 
changed  so  completely. 

Her  first  feeling  was  a  sense  of  relief.  Things  could 
not  be  so  bad  after  all.  She  must  have  been  mistaken 
yesterday.  Father  was  not  drunk;  only  sick.  With  a 
happier  heart  she  went  into  the  house  and  there  her  better 

38 


The  Beginning  of  Sorrows 

impressions  were  confirmed ;  there  was  no  more  change  in 
the  house  than  out  of  doors.  The  children  were  down 
stairs,  waiting  for  breakfast;  her  mother  was  fretting  at 
them,  as  she  always  did,  and  her  father  was  reading  the 
paper.  As  Keturah  saw  all  this  her  spirit  revived  and 
she  went  about  her  work  with  cheerfulness. 

But  she  could  not  help  watching  her  father  as  she  had 
never  watched  him  before,  and  what  she  saw  in  his  face 
went  far  to  dampen  her  newborn  hope  and  confirm  her 
fears  of  the  morning.  There  was  no  change  in  the  world 
outside,  there  was  no  change  in  the  household  routine ;  all 
that  was  as  it  always  had  been ;  but  there  was  a  change 
in  her  father's  face.  That  change  had  been  coming  for 
a  long  time,  only  Keturah  had  not  seen  it  until  now;  it 
was  a  sad  and  sudden  revelation  to  her.  She  saw  a  cer- 
tain redness  in  her  father's  face,  which  was  not  the  rough- 
ness of  the  wind,  and  over  his  eyes  there  was  a  certain 
haze  and  blear;  his  look  was  unsteady  and  on  his  coun- 
tenance there  was  an  aspect  of  sadness,  of  weakness,  and 
of  shame.  His  face  was  the  face  of  a  man  in  the  first 
stages  of  moral  decay.  Keturah  could  not  understand 
all  that  she  saw  in  that  face,  but  she  knew  it  meant  some- 
thing wrong,  and  her  heart  failed  her  accordingly. 

From  that  day  she  was  on  the  lookout  for  evil.  Her 
confidence  in  the  goodness  of  her  father  was  shaken  and 
her  life  became  a  daily  dread.  What  she  feared  came  to 
pass.  Her  father  came  home  again  and  again  under  the 
influence  of  strong  drink,  until  at  last  the  awful  conclu- 
sion was  forced  upon  Keturah  that  her  father  was  a 
drunkard.  And  she  found  herself  outside  the  gates  of 
Paradise  in  the  wilderness  of  the  world. 


39 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  FIRST  DISASTER 

FROM  that  day  the  life  of  Keturah  was  one  of  consum- 
ing anxiety.  Her  mother  did  not  seem  to  be  aware  of 
the  danger  that  they  were  in,  and  Keturah  did  not  care  to 
speak  to  her  about  it.  She  and  her  mother  were  not  in 
sympathy.  She  had  to  live  her  life  of  anxiety  and  sor- 
row alone,  and  wait  with  fear  and  trembling  for  what  the 
morrow  would  bring  forth.  She  knew  that  it  was  not 
safe  for  her  father  to  be  in  charge  of  the  sloop,  especially 
to  be  at  the  wheel,  as  he  always  was ;  he  was  there  at  the 
risk  of  his  own  life  and  at  the  risk  of  the  lives  of  others. 
The  river,  crowded  with  craft,  was  no  place  for  a  drunken 
pilot,  and  such  she  had  sadly  to  admit  her  father  was. 
Once  or  twice  she  had  spoken  to  him  timidly,  asking  him 
if  he  could  not  get  something  to  do  on  shore ;  but  he  had 
answered  roughly,  telling  her  to  mind  her  own  business, 
and  she  did  not  care  to  speak  to  him  again.  She  could 
only  wait  for  the  end. 

And  it  came  all  too  soon.  It  was  a  dark  September 
day,  when  the  autumnal  equinox  was  blowing,  and  sailing 
in  the  Sound  required  a  clear  eye  and  a  steady  hand. 
Joshua  Bain  was  bringing  the  Falmouth  down  from  New 
London.  He  had  been  drinking  hard  all  the  day  before 
and  was  in  a  state  of  collapse.  It  was  the  very  day  and 

41 


The  Greater  Love 

hour  for  a  disaster,  and  he  did  not  escape  it.  When  ne 
was  off  Blackwell's  Island  he  put  his  helm  to  port  when 
it  should  have  gone  to  starboard,  and  ran  down  the  prison 
boat  that  was  taking  released  prisoners  from  the  Island 
to  the  city.  Three  of  the  prisoners,  two  men  and  a  wo- 
man, were  lost,  as  also  were  two  of  the  keepers.  Five 
lives  in  all  paid  the  penalty  of  Joshua  Bain's  uncertain 
eye  and  unsteady  hand  and  drunken  soul. 

At  the  investigation  which  followed,  before  the  court 
of  the  port  wardens,  it  was  clearly  proven  that  the  col- 
lision was  the  fault  of  the  captain  of  the  Falmouth.  It 
was  also  brought  out  at  the  trial  that  Joshua  Bain  was 
in  the  habit  of  drinking.  By  decree  of  the  court  his 
license  as  captain  was  taken  away  and  he  was  fined  one 
thousand  dollars.  Beside  this,  he  was  sued  in  the  court 
for  damages  by  the  heirs  of  those  whose  lives  had  been 
lost  by  the  accident,  and  also  by  the  city,  the  boat  of  which 
had  been  injured.  The  verdicts  against  the  poor  man 
were  so  heavy  that  he  was  ruined  for  life.  He  was  threat- 
ened also  with  criminal  prosecution  for  manslaughter, 
but  this,  through  the  remissness  of  the  district  attorney, 
he  escaped. 

Nothing  could  be  more  complete  than  the  misfortune 
that  had  befallen  the  family  of  Joshua  Bain.  His  sloop 
was  taken  away  from  him  and  his  house  was  sold  by  the 
sheriff,  and  was  purchased  by  the  Bullet  estate. 

Then  came  the  change  that  had  long  been  inevitable. 
The  city  of  New  York  had  been  growing  by  leaps  and 
bounds.  Neighborhoods  had  been  changing  with  a  ra- 
pidity that  was  bewildering.  The  fashionable  quarter  of 
yesterday  was  the  slum  of  to-morrow.  Residence  streets 
were  taken  for  business;  and  quiet  neighborhoods  were 
built  up  into  great  tenements,  to  house  the  mixed  and 

42 


The  First  Disaster 

noisy  foreign  population  that  was  crowding  from  all  lands 
into  the  great  city.  For  years  Mulberry  Street  had  been 
in  a  state  of  transformation.  The  Irish  and  the  Jews 
were  crowding  out  the  native  population  and  driving 
them  up  town  and  into  the  suburbs.  Hideous  and  pop- 
ulous tenements  were  taking  the  place  of  the  cottage 
houses  with  their  pretty  dooryards. 

For  a  long  time  the  Bullet  estate  had  wanted  the  Bain 
property  to  complete  the  lot  necessary  for  a  large  build- 
ing which  the  agent  wished  to  put  up  there.  He  had  al- 
ready purchased  from  Mrs.  Magrath,  and  had  offered 
Bain  a  handsome  sum  for  his  house.  But  Joshua  Bain 
would  not  sell  because  it  was  his  home ;  the  place  where 
he  had  lived  ever  since  he  had  been  in  the  city,  and  which 
he  had  builded  in  the  likeness  of  the  house  of  his  mother, 
and  which  he  had  loved  as  a  man  loves  that  upon  which 
he  has  spent  his  time,  his  money,  and  his  heart.  But 
what  the  Bullet  millions  could  not  accomplish  had  been 
brought  about  by  drink.  The  home  that  Joshua  Bain 
would  not  sell,  he  lost.  At  that  time  there  was  no  law 
against  keeping  or  building  houses  on  the  rear  of  city 
lots,  so  the  Bullet  estate  moved  Mrs.  Magrath's  shanty 
and  the  Bain  cottage  back  to  the  line  of  the  lots  and  built 
their  great  tenement  in  front,  leaving  a  narrow  passage 
to  the  rear.  Thus  the  Bain  cottage,  which  had  been  open 
to  the  sky  and  the  street,  was  shut  into  the  narrowness 
and  darkness  of  a  damp  and  paved  court. 

If  there  had  been  any  power  of  weeping  left  in  the 
soul  of  Keturah,  she  would  have  cried  to  break  her  heart 
when  the  elm  was  cut  down  at  the  gate  and  the  turf  torn 
up  in  the  dooryard.  But  Keturah  had  grown  too  old 
for  tears ;  her  eyes  were  as  dry  as  her  heart  was  desolate. 
So  she  watched  in  silence  this  desecration  of  her  home 
and  tried  to  save  what  she  could  out  of  the  ruins. 

43 


The  Greater  Love 

In  this  crisis  of  the  family  history  she  had  become  the 
head  of  the  household.  Her  father,  utterly  broken  by 
the  accumulating  misfortune,  drifted  away  on  the  sea  of 
drunkenness  and  was  of  no  use  to  his  family.  When  he 
did  recover  he  was  able  to  do  only  odd  jobs  down  at  the 
river  in  the  way  of  loading  and  unloading  ships,  and  he 
also,  by  and  by,  having  influence  with  sailors  and  long- 
shoremen, made  himself  useful  to  the  political  boss  of  his 
district  and  was  allowed  to  gather  a  few  crumbs  from 
under  the  political  table ;  but  this  was  only  years  after  the 
great  disaster. 

Keturah's  mother,  unable  to  bear  up  under  the  family 
misfortunes,  gave  away  to  a  habit  of  opium  eating  which 
she  had  slowly  been  acquiring  for  years.  She  was  sub- 
ject to  sick  headache  and  her  physician  had  given  her 
opium  to  quiet  her  pain,  with  the  usual  result  that  the 
remedy  was  worse  than  the  disease,  and  as  her  husband 
was  an  alcoholic,  so  was  she  an  opium  drunkard. 

It  was  under  such  circumstances  that  the  strong  will 
01  Keturah  exerted  itself  to  save  what  she  could  of  the 
family  wreck.  She  would  keep  her  father  and  mother 
from  the  poor-house,  and  her  brother  and  sister  from  the 
street.  By  her  force  of  character  she  easily  dominated 
the  weaker  wills  of  her  father  and  mother  and  kept  hold 
of  the  boy  and  the  girl. 

She  left  school  and  found  work  for  herself  in  the 
trimming  rooms  of  Isaac  Rosenthal,  manufacturer  of  hats 
and  caps.  The  pittance  paid  her  would  have  been  in- 
sufficient to  keep  a  roof  over  their  heads,  and  the  poor- 
house  and  the  street  would  have  been  their  portion  had 
not  a  little  good  fortune  come  in  the  midst  of  their  mis- 
fortune. Grandfather  Skinner  died  in  Falmouth,  and  left 
her  mother  a  few  hundred  dollars.  Keturah  got  posses- 
sion of  that  and  kept  it  for  ready  money. 

44 


The  First  Disaster 

She  looked  everywhere  for  a  place  to  live  in,  but  could 
find  nothing  so  convenient  to  her  work  and  so  in  accord 
with  their  means  as  their  own  cottage  in  the  rear  of  No. 
53  Mulberry  Street.  It  was  shut  in  from  the  light  and 
made  vile  by  the  sights  and  sounds  of  a  low  tenement, 
but  what  could  she  expect  ?  She  was  poor  as  the  poorest, 
and  poverty  brought  with  it  not  only  want  but  degrada- 
tion. Everywhere  within  reach  of  her  work  she  found 
the  same  conditions.  Besides,  she  could  have  the  cottage 
for  themselves  and  it  was  their  own  old  home.  And  if  it 
was  hidden,  it  hid  their  ruin  and  their  shame. 

So  Keturah  used  a  part  of  her  mother's  legacy  to  buy 
a  five-years'  lease  of  the  cottage  from  the  Bullet  estate. 
She  put  her  brother  to  work  in  a  drygoods  house  in 
Chambers  Street,  and  she  herself  went  every  day  to  her 
work  and  to  her  labor  until  the  evening. 


45 


CHAPTER  VII 

A  MISFORTUNE  OF  WAR 

BY  that  wonderful  power  of  adaptability  which  is 
Nature's  best  gift  to  living  things,  Keturah  adjusted  her- 
self to  her  new  conditions  and  was  not  unhappy  in  them. 
Her  work,  at  first  so  irksome,  soon  became  a  pleasure. 
As  the  girls  in  the  trimming  room  were  paid  by  the  piece, 
Keturah's  wages  depended  upon  her  industry  and  her 
skill.  Her  New  England  sense  of  duty  made  her  a  care- 
ful worker.  She  never  tried  to  do  more  than  she  could 
do  well.  She  had  no  desire  to  increase  her  wages  at  the 
expense  of  her  employer.  Every  hat  and  cap  that  left 
her  hands  would  bear  the  keen  inspection  of  the  fore- 
woman and  even  of  Mr.  Rosenthal  himself.  At  first  her 
careful  methods  placed  her  at  a  disadvantage  with  other 
girls,  and  they  made  fun  of  her  accordingly.  But  she 
soon  found  that  her  way  was  the  best.  While  the  work 
of  the  other  girls  was  frequently  rejected  and  they  were 
fined  for  spoiling  the  material  intrusted  to  them,  and  so 
lost  sometimes  as  much  as  half  their  week's  wages,  Ke- 
turah's work  after  the  first  few  weeks  was  always  ac- 
cepted and  what  she  did  she  was  paid  for.  She  had  no 
losses  to  make  up.  Soon  she  became  the  most  rapid,  as 
well  as  the  most  careful  worker  in  the  room,  and  her  in- 
come increased  in  proportion.  While  not  exactly  pop- 

47 


The  Greater  Love 

ular,  Keturah  was  greatly  respected  by  her  shopmates. 
She  had  the  influence  which  a  superior  nature  always  has. 
The  working  girls  were,  for  the  most  part,  children  of 
foreign  and  illiterate  parents,  careless  in  their  habits  and 
coarse  in  their  speech;  loud  laughter  and  low  jests  were 
the  staple  of  talk  and  mirth.  In  the  midst  of  this  coarse- 
ness, Keturah,  with  her  refinement  and  gentleness,  seemed 
a  being  from  another  world,  and  she  suffered  acutely  from 
it.  But  she  kept  bravely  on  in  her  way,  bearing  the  scoffs 
of  the  girls,  who  called  her  "Yankee  miss"  and  "stuck 
up,"  in  silence,  until  at  last  she  conquered  the  respect  of 
her  companions  and  brought  them  to  conform  in  a 
measure  to  her  ways  and  habits. 

To  the  younger  girls  who  came  into  the  shop  she  was 
a  helpful  friend,  showing  them  how  best  to  do  their  work 
and  protecting  them  from  the  older  and  ruder  women. 
Any  one  who  was  in  trouble  could  always  find  a  wise  and 
sympathetic  counsellor  in  Keturah  Bain.  In  a  few  years 
her  moral  sway  was  undisputed. 

Her  employer  was  not  slow  to  recognize  the  commer- 
cial value  of  such  a  character  as  that  of  Keturah,  and 
when  the  forewoman,  jealous  of  her  growing  influence 
in  the  shop,  attempted  to  injure  her  in  his  estimation, 
Mr.  Rosenthal,  to  prevent  friction,  quietly  dismissed  the 
forewoman  and  put  Keturah  in  her  place. 

Then  came  the  great  war  time  with  its  rush  of  orders. 
Hats  and  caps  by  the  thousands  were  to  be  made  for  the 
soldiers,  and  Mr.  Rosenthal  was  not  slow  to  get  his  share 
of  the  work.  Prices  were  high  and  wages  increased. 
These,  if  not  altogether  happy,  were  not  unpleasant,  days 
for  Keturah  Bain.  As  she  stood  in  her  workroom  in 
the  midst  of  her  fifty  girls,  she  felt  herself  a  power  in 
the  world,  and  had  the  satisfaction  that  comes  of  an  as- 
sured position  and  a  regular  income. 

48 


A  Misfortune  of  War 

At  home  things  were  not  so  bad  as  they  might  be. 
Her  father  was  slowly  recovering  from  the  worst  phase 
of  drunkenness  and  would  go  sometimes  for  weeks  with- 
out drinking.  In  such  intervals  he  would  earn  quite  a 
little  as  'longshoreman,  and  on  his  best  days  would  be  em- 
ployed as  a  stevedore.  Except  when  drunk,  he  was  al- 
ways the  same  easy,  happy,  gentle  Joshua  Bain  whom  Ke- 
turah  had  known  and  loved  in  her  childhood.  When 
sober,  he  was  plainly  his  mother's  child ;  but  drink  brought 
out  the  fierce,  Puritan  strain  of  his  father's  blood,  and 
then  he  was  very  hard  to  live  with,  and  his  home  an  un- 
pleasant place.  At  such  times  Keturah  would  take  her 
mother  and  the  children  and  go  away  to  the  riverside  and 
wait  until  the  worst  was  over. 

The  character  of  her  mother  slowly  degenerated  under 
the  power  of  the  drug  she  was  using.  Keturah  tried  in 
every  way  to  keep  the  deadly  thing  from  her,  but  all  to  no 
purpose.  The  mother,  when  Keturah  was  from  home, 
would  pawn  anything  that  she  could  lay  her  hands  on  in 
order  to  gratify  her  depraved  appetite.  At  last  Keturah 
gave  up  the  struggle,  and  to  save  herself  further  shame 
and  annoyance,  she  found  out  from  the  physician  how 
much  opium  her  mother  needed  to  keep  her  satisfied  and 
supplied  her  with  the  required  quantity. 

There  was  one  thing  Keturah  would  not  do.  She 
would  not  give  her  father  anything  for  drink,  and  to  tell 
the  truth  and  do  him  justice,  he  never  asked  her  for  it. 
Whatever  he  spent  in  that  way  he  earned. 

Keturah  was  careful  to  keep  Abigail  in  school.  She 
meant  to  educate  her  so  that  in  time  she  could  earn  her 
living  by  teaching.  Keturah,  seeing  the  dreadful  evils 
of  shop  life,  determined  from  the  very  first  that  Abigail 
should  never  suffer  from  them  as  she  had.  She  was 

40 


willing  to  deprive  herself,  not  only  of  luxuries,  but  even 
of  necessities,  to  save  her  sister  from  such  a  fate.  At  all 
cost  to  herself,  Abigail  was  to  be  prepared  to  take  that 
place  in  life  which  was  hers  by  right  as  the  daughter  of 
New  England  parents. 

Abigail  repaid  her  care  with  a  passive  affection.  She 
yielded  early  to  the  dominant  will  of  her  sister,  and  was 
anxious  to  please  her  as  far  as  she  could  consistently  with 
her  own  ease  and  pleasure.  Keturah's  eyes  were  too  par- 
tial to  see  this  strain  of  sensual  selfishness  in  her  sister. 
Abigail's  budding  beauty  was  her  delight,  and  her  good 
scholarship,  for  she  was  a  good  scholar,  was  her  pride. 
Keturah,  as  a  reward  for  these  good  qualities  which  she 
admired  in  the  child,  kept  her  as  well  dressed  as  any  child 
in  the  school,  and  when  she  had  finished  in  the  grammar 
school  sent  her  to  the  Normal  College. 

Benjamin  was  doing  exceedingly  well  in  his  business. 
He  had  already  been  promoted  from  the  position  of  er- 
rand boy  to  the  place  of  stock  keeper  in  the  print  depart- 
ment in  the  great  establishment  of  Johnstone  &  Morgan 
in  Chambers  Street.  He  was  a  favorite  of  Mr.  Morgan, 
who  took  a  great  interest  in  his  welfare.  His  prospects 
of  promotion  were  excellent  and  Keturah  looked  to  him, 
in  time,  to  restore  the  family  fortunes. 

In  this  way  it  was  well  with  the  Bain  family  in  the 
first  years  of  the  great  Civil  War.  This  war  was  so  far 
away  that  they,  apparently,  had  nothing  to  fear  from  it. 
What  was  such  a  curse  to  the  South  was  a  blessing  to 
these  work  people  of  the  North.  It  gave  them  plenty  of 
work  and  high  wages.  But  when  all  was  thus  fair  and 
peaceful,  this  family  was  suddenly  involved  in  the  con- 
sequences of  the  civil  strife  and  suffered  the  misfortunes 
of  war. 

so 


A  Misfortune  of  War 

It  happened  in  this  way : 

For  three  days  New  York  was  the  scene  of  a  conflict 
more  dreadful  than  that  which  was  raging  in  the  South. 
These  days  were  the  days  of  the  draft  riots,  when  the 
dregs  of  the  people  came  out  of  the  back  streets  and  alleys 
and  took  possession  of  the  city,  destroying  property  and 
killing  such  negroes  as  they  could  lay  their  hands  on. 
Those  days  were  days  of  terror,  especially  in  that  part  of 
the  city  where  the  Bains  lived.  For  the  first  two  days 
Keturah  stayed  at  home  and  kept  all  the  family,  except 
the  father,  with  her.  On  the  third  day  Benjamin  said  he 
must  go  to  the  store  and  see  if  he  could  do  anything  for 
Mr.  Morgan — the  truth  being  that  he  was  very  tired 
of  staying  in  the  house,  and  wanted  to  go  out  and  have 
his  share  in  the  excitement  of  those  exciting  days. 

At  first  Keturah  refused  him  permission,  but  he  in- 
sisted and  at  last  she  had  to  let  him  go.  She  went  her- 
self as  far  down  as  Chatham  Street  with  him,  and  seeing 
the  crowds  surging  toward  Printing  House  Square  be- 
came frightened,  and  begged  Benjamin  to  go  to  the  store 
by  way  of  the  back  streets  and  to  come  home  just  as  soon 
as  he  could.  This  the  boy  promised  he  would  do ;  but  as 
soon  as  Keturah  had  turned  up  into  Mulberry  Street  to 
go  home,  Benjamin  ran  up  Chatham  Street  and  was 
caught  in  the  crush  of  the  mob  and  was  carried  in  spite 
of  himself  up  into  Printing  House  Square. 

It  was  the  day  when  the  mob  threatened  to  destroy 
the  Tribune  building.  They  were  gathered  there,  a  mass 
of  mad,  yelling  men  and  women.  It  would  have  gone 
hard  with  Horace  Greeley  and  his  old  printing  house  if 
the  Seventh  and  other  regiments  had  not  come  in  the 
night  before  from  the  front  to  restore  order  to  their  be- 
loved city.  While  the  mob  was  spending  its  time  and 

51 


The  Greater  Love 

strength  in  oaths  and  ribaldry,  hooting  at  the  Governor, 
who  was  trying  to  pacify  them  with  soft  words,  calling 
them  his  friends,  his  very  dear  friends,  the  citizen  soldiery 
were  marching  in  grim  silence  down  the  Broadway,  de- 
termined to  put  an  end  at  once  to  the  rule  of  lust  and 
murder,  which  the  weakness  and  supineness  of  the  civil 
authorities  had  allowed  for  three  days  to  reign  without 
hindrance  in  the  city. 

Benjamin  Bain  had  forced  his  way  through  the  press 
of  people  up  onto  the  steps  of  French's  hotel,  that  then 
stood  on  the  corner  of  Printing  House  Square  and  Frank- 
fort Street.  As  from  his  point  of  vantage  he  looked  over 
the  heads  of  the  crowd,  he  saw  that  which  made  him,  boy 
as  he  was,  hold  his  breath  in  terror.  Just  beyond  the 
City  Hall  park,  in  the  Broadway,  he  saw  a  moving  line 
of  steel,  glistening  in  the  sunlight. 

The  soldiers  had  come,  and  the  end  was  at  hand.  In 
a  moment  he  saw  a  horseman  force  his  way  into  the  crowd 
waving  his  sword  and  evidently  trying  to  speak ;  but  his 
voice  was  drowned  in  the  roar  of  the  mob,  and  the  man 
was  driven  back  by  stones  and  sticks  and  pistol  shots.  In 
another  instant  the  line  of  gleaming  steel  on  Broadway 
disappeared,  there  was  a  puff  of  smoke,  a  deafening 
rattle,  and  then  such  a  scream  of  baffled  hate  and  rage  as 
only  a  human  mob  can  put  forth,  which  was  followed 
by  a  mad  rush  for  safety  as  the  miscreants  sought  to  es- 
cape the  bayonets  that  were  pressing  in  upon  them  from 
Broadway  and  Chambers  Street. 

Benjamin  Bain  was  thrown  down  from  the  steps  of 
the  hotel,  and  an  hour  afterwards  he  was  taken  up  ap- 
parently dead,  from  the  pavement  of  Printing  House 
Square,  and  carried  to  Bellevue  Hospital. 

That  day  was  a  day  that  Keturah  Bain  had  cause  to 

52 


A  Misfortune  of  War 

remember  as  long  as  she  lived.  Benjamin  had  not  been 
gone  but  a  little  while  before  she  heard  the  sound  of  firing 
in  the  street.  She  comforted  herself  by  the  thought  that 
he  had  gotten  safely  into  the  store  and  would  stay  there 
until  the  trouble  was  over.  And  when  silence  succeeded 
the  noise,  she  breathed  more  freely,  believing  that  the  riot 
was  suppressed  and  that  Benjamin  would  surely  be  home 
at  noon.  When  the  noon  hour  passed  and  the  boy  did 
not  come,  she  began  to  grow  anxious,  and  as  the  afternoon 
wore  on  and  he  still  remained  away,  her  anxiety  deepened 
into  fear. 

After  waiting  until  she  could  bear  her  suspense  no 
longer,  Keturah  summoned  up  her  courage  and  went  to 
the  street  to  find  out,  if  she  could,  what  had  happened  in 
the  morning.  She  saw  at  once  that  the  streets  that  day 
were  no  place  for  an  unprotected  woman ;  they  were  full 
of  drunken  men  and  women,  who  were  raging  against 
the  soldiers  and  threatening  dire  vengeance  for  what  they 
called  the  murder  of  the  morning.  From  the  talk  of  the 
street  Keturah  learned  that  the  soldiers  had  fired  on  the 
mob,  wounding  and  killing  a  great  many  people.  She 
returned  to  her  home  with  a  new  terror  in  her  heart. 
Benjamin  might  have  been  in  the  crowd  and  might  have 
been  wounded.  She  sat  down  with  that  thought  as  her 
company,  and  watched  the  passage-way  until  it  was  dark. 

Benjamin  was  his  mother's  favorite  child,  and  when 
it  was  toward  night  she  came  into  the  room  where  Ke- 
turah was  sitting,  still  keeping  her  watch  at  the  window, 
and  said : 

"Keturah,  where  is  Benjamin?  I  haven't  seen  him 
since  morning." 

"I  don't  know  where  he  is,  mother;  he  went  away  at 
nine  o'clock  to  go  to  the  store  and  he  hasn't  been  home 
since." 

53 


The  Greater  Love 

"Has  there  been  any  trouble  in  the  streets  to-day?" 

"Yes,  mother,  very  serious  trouble.  A  great  many 
people  have  been  hurt  and  some  killed." 

"Oh,  Keturah!"  cried  the  mother,  sitting  down  in  a 
faint.  "You  don't  think  Benjamin  was  there,  do  you?" 

"I  don't  know,  mother,  but  I  hope  not.  I  told  him  to 
go  by  the  back  streets  to  the  store.  I  guess  he  is  there 
now.  Mr.  Morgan  has  kept  him  to  help  take  care  of  the 
store." 

"Do  you  think  so,  Keturah,  do  you  really  think  so?" 
cried  the  mother  in  distress. 

"Yes,  mother,  I  do,  so  don't  be  afraid.  Ben  will 
surely  be  home  in  a  little  while  now." 

Keturah's  brave  answer  belied  the  sinking  courage  of 
her  heart.  Fear  was  becoming  a  dreadful  certainty.  As 
the  darkness  deepened  and  still  Benjamin  did  not  come, 
Keturah  began  to  grow  restless  and  to  walk  from  room 
to  room  in  the  house.  She  took  little  Abigail,  who  was 
sobbing  with  the  weariness  of  her  three  days'  confinement, 
and  gave  her  some  supper  and  put  her  to  bed.  When 
she  came  down  stairs  she  found  that  her  father  had  come 
home  in  a  drunken  stupor.  He  was  lying  in  a  deep,  sense- 
less sleep  on  the  lounge  in  the  front  room.  On  seeing 
this  Keturah  broke  down  utterly.  She  had  hoped  that 
her  father  would  be  himself  when  he  came  home,  and  she 
could  send  him  to  look  for  Benjamin.  But  with  him  in 
that  condition,  there  was  no  one  to  go  but  herself,  and 
she  was  afraid  of  the  streets.  For  a  moment  she  gave 
way  to  an  outburst  of  grief,  and  then  recovering  herself, 
she  put  on  her  hat  and  jacket,  and  passing  into  the  dining- 
room  to  tell  her  mother  that  she  was  going  to  look  for 
Benjamin,  she  found  her  mother  with  her  head  on  the 
table,  in  the  first  stages  of  opium  drunkenness. 

54 


A  Misfortune  of  War 

At  that  sight  a  great  wave  of  pity  came  over  Keturah ; 
pity  for  that  kind-hearted,  but  degraded  man,  whose 
stertorous  breathing  from  the  next  room  smote  upon  her 
ears  like  a  blow;  pity  for  that  poor,  hopeless  woman, 
whose  dishevelled  and  dishonored  head  lay  there  prone 
upon  the  table ;  pity  for  poor  Abigail  up-stairs,  who  had 
to  grow  up  to  the  knowledge  of  her  inheritance  of  shame ; 
pity  for  Benjamin,  perhaps  dead  in  the  streets,  and  pity 
last  of  all  for  her  own  young,  joyless  life,  which  seemed 
to  be  at  that  hour  a  burden  greater  than  she  could  bear. 

It  was  this  pity  for  herself  that  gave  her  courage  to  go 
out  into  the  streets.  For  after  all,  what  did  it  matter? 
Nothing  could  be  worse  than  the  present;  if  she  were 
killed,  death  would  be  a  short  way  out  of  the  misery  of 
life. 

Thus  without  a  word  of  encouragement  from  a  living 
soul,  Keturah  went  out  of  doors  into  the  darkness  and 
terror  of  the  street. 

She  did  what  she  had  told  Benjamin  to  do  in  the 
morning.  She  went  by  the  back  streets  to  the  store  in 
Chambers  Street.  She  found  the  store  closed  and  de- 
serted, only  the  night  watchman  was  there,  who  told  her 
that  no  one  except  the  janitor  had  been  down  that  day 
and  he  had  said  nothing  about  Benjamin.  The  night 
watchman  did  not  think  he  had  been  there.  When  Ke- 
turah asked  what  she  ought  to  do,  he  said  she  had  better 
go  down  to  the  station-house  in  the  next  block ;  there  per- 
haps she  might  learn  something  of  her  brother.  He 
would  gladly  go  with  her,  he  said,  only  he  could  not 
leave  his  post. 

Following  his  advice,  Keturah  went  to  the  station- 
house.  It  was  crowded  with  people,  and  it  was  a  long 
time  before  she  could  speak  to  the  sergeant  in  charge. 

55 


The  Greater  Love 

When  she  did  speak  to  him  he  was  very  rough  and  im- 
patient with  her.  How  could  he  know  where  her  brother 
was  ?  Why  did  not  she  keep  him  at  home  ?  Did  she  think 
the  police  had  nothing  to  do  that  night  but  to  look  for  a 
brat  of  a  boy  ?  Keturah  bore  this  outbreak  of  official  in- 
solence in  silence,  and  when  it  was  over  said  firmly : 

"Sir,  I  must  find  my  brother;  can  you  tell  me  where 
to  look  for  him?" 

To  this  came  the  rough  answer : 

"If  he  is  dead,  he  is  at  the  morgue;  if  he  is  hurt,  he  is 
at  Bellevue." 


56 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  BIRTH  OF  LOVE 

As  Keturah  turned  away  from  the  desk,  not  knowing 
what  to  do,  a  young  man  stepped  up  to  her  and  said : 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  miss,  but  you  hadn't  ought  to  go 
out  in  the  streets  alone  to-night.  May  I  go  with  you  and 
help  you  find  your  brother  ?" 

The  young  woman  looked  up  with  a  startled  gaze  at 
the  speaker  and  she  saw  in  front  of  her  a  tall  young  man, 
with  his  right  arm  in  a  sling.  He  explained,  saying : 

"I  was  hurt  to-day.  Had  my  arm  broken  and  have 
been  here  waiting  for  the  police  surgeon  to  set  it ;  he  fin- 
ished about  an  hour  ago  and  I've  been  restin'  awhile  be- 
fore goin'  home.  I  am  goin'  now,  only  I  heard  you 
talkin'  to  the  sergeant  and  I  thought  maybe  I  might  help 
you.  My  name  is  Sherwood,  John  Sherwood.  I  live 
up  in  Rivington  Street.  It  aint  right  for  any  woman  to 
be  out  to-night  alone,  'specially,"  he  said,  lifting  his  hat 
with  his  disengaged  hand,  "  'specially  such  a  young  wo- 
man as  yourself." 

Keturah  blushed  at  this  speech  and  was  very  pretty 
to  look  upon.  She  was  only  twenty-two  then,  and  the 
bloom  of  her  young  womanhood  was  upon  her,  and  as  a 
woman  she  could  not  help  being  pleased  with  the  courtesy 
of  the  young  stranger.  His  voice  was  so  gentle  and  his 

57 


The  Greater  Love 

manner  so  straightforward  and  honest,  and  Keturah's 
need  was  so  desperate  that  she  gave  him  her  confidence 
at  once.  At  that  moment  she  was  as  grateful  for  his  kind 
words  as  a  hungry  dog  for  a  bone.  Putting  her  hand 
upon  his  arm,  she  went  out  with  him  into  the  street.  It 
was  a  long  and  dangerous  walk  up  to  the  morgue  and  the 
hospital.  There  was  no  public  nor  private  conveyance 
on  the  streets,  all  traffic  was  suspended.  Broadway  was 
in  the  possession  of  the  soldiery  and  no  one  was  allowed 
to  pass  that  way.  So  Keturah  and  her  new-found  friend 
had  to  make  their  way  up  Chatham  Street,  through  the 
Bowery  and  Third  Avenue  to  Twenty-second  Street. 

The  remembrance  of  that  walk  for  years  afterward 
would  cause  Keturah  to  awaken  in  the  night  in  a  cold 
sweat  of  alarm.  In  her  dreams  she  would  see  again  those 
dreadful  men  and  women;  lost  to  all  humanity,  shame- 
less, reckless,  senseless  creatures,  letting  loose  in  the  civil- 
ized world  the  primitive  passions  of  the  savage,  raging 
with  hate  and  mad  with  drink. 

A  large  force  of  armed  police  were  moving  about  dis- 
persing the  crowds  and  preventing  as  far  as  possible  any 
acts  of  violence.  But  the  officers  were  so  few  and  the 
people  so  many  that  Keturah  expected  every  moment  to 
see  the  mob  get  the  upper  hand,  tear  the  officers  to  pieces, 
and,  free  from  all  fear  and  restraint,  go  on  to  burn  the 
city  and  kill  the  people.  But  beyond  a  disturbance  here 
and  there,  which  was  quickly  suppressed,  there  was  no 
outbreak,  and  Keturah  and  her  friend  were  pushed  along 
by  the  crowd.  Sherwood  walked  as  closely  as  he  could 
to  the  houses  and  kept  Keturah  on  the  inside  so  that  the 
men  should  not  see  her.  In  his  hand,  hanging  down  and 
concealed,  he  carried  a  revolver  to  be  used  in  case  of 
necessity. 

58 


The  Birth  of  Love 

When  they  passed  out  of  the  Bowery  into  Third  Ave- 
nue the  crowd  was  less  dense  and  they  were  able  to  move 
more  rapidly,  and  coming  to  Twenty-second  Street,  which 
was  entirely  deserted,  hurried  down  to  the  morgue  and 
the  hospital.  When  they  reached  the  place,  Sherwood 
turned  toward  the  morgue ;  but  Keturah  shrank  back  and 
said: 

"No,  no,  not  there;  let  us  go  to  the  hospital  first." 

"Don't  you  think,"  said  Sherwood,  "we  had  better  go 
to  the  morgue  first  ?  If  we  don't  find  him  there  we  can  go 
to  the  hospital,  and  it  ull  be  easier  to  go  from  the  morgue 
to  the  hospital  than  from  the  hospital  to  the  morgue." 

Hearing  this,  Keturah  suffered  herself  to  be  led  to  the 
house  where  the  dead  were  exposed.  As  she  drew  near 
she  heard  a  great  cry  of  wailing  women;  mothers  were 
weeping  for  their  sons  and  their  daughters,  wives  for 
their  husbands,  and  young  women  for  their  fathers,  their 
brothers,  and  their  lovers. 

As  Keturah  entered  the  morgue  she  saw  the  dead  in 
rows  propped  up  in  a  half  sitting  posture,  for  more  easy 
recognition  and  for  economy  of  space.  Keturah  moved 
slowly  with  the  moving  crowds  between  the  dead,  with 
that  far-away,  dazed  sensation  which  is  Nature's  narcotic, 
that  she  uses  in  times  of  terrible  and  painful  emotion  to 
deaden  the  agony  of  the  soul.  Keturah  walked  as  if  in  her 
sleep,  through  these  scenes  of  horror,  looking  at  the  faces 
of  the  dead  with  curious  interest,  not  paying  any  more  at- 
tention to  the  wailing  of  the  women  than  if  they  had  been 
crying  babies  of  the  tenement.  At  last  she  came  to  the 
end,  and,  looking  up  into  the  face  of  her  guide,  she  said, 
quite  calmly : 

"My  brother  is  not  here." 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  he,  "let  us  go  to  the  hospital." 

59 


The  Greater  Love 

They  came  out  of  the  morgue  and  stood  for  a  moment 
in  the  silence  of  the  night  on  the  shore  of  the  river.  It 
was  a  beautiful  night,  without  a  cloud,  and  every  star  in  its 
place ;  a  gentle  breeze  was  moving,  and  the  outgoing  tide 
was  washing  softly  against  the  timbers  of  the  hospital 
pier.  For  a  long  time  after,  Keturah  could  not  see  the 
stars  in  the  sky,  nor  feel  the  night  wind  on  her  face, 
without  seeing  rows  of  sitting  dead,  and  feeling  cold 
terror  in  her  heart,  and  hearing  the  wailing  of  mourning 
women. 

For  weeks  and  months  she  was  afraid  to  go  down  to 
the  river.  The  horror  of  that  night  had  spoiled  for  her 
the  beauty  of  the  sky  and  the  water. 

After  waiting  for  a  moment  to  allow  Keturah  to  re- 
cover herself,  Sherwood  went  with  her  to  the  hospital. 
Looking  over  the  names  of  those  who  had  been  brought 
in  that  day,  they  did  not  find  Benjamin's  name  among 
them  and  were  about  to  go  away,  when  they  were  told  that 
in  the  next  room  were  a  few  who  had  been  brought  in  un- 
conscious, and  so  were  not  able  to  tell  their  names.  The 
boy  they  were  looking  for  might  be  there.  And  there 
they  found  him,  lying  white  and  still  on  a  cot. 

The  nurse  told  them  that  he  had  a  concussion  of  the 
brain  and  his  hip  was  broken.  He  was  still  alive,  but  no 
one  could  tell  how  long  he  would  last.  He  might  die  at 
any  time. 

Turning  to  her  friend  and  protector,  Keturah  said  : 

"Mr.  Sherwood,  you  have  been  very  kind  to  me  to- 
night, more  kind  than  any  one  has  ever  been  to  me  before 
in  my  life.  I  don't  know  why  you  have  done  all  this  for 
me  except  that  you  are  a  good  man  with  a  good  heart." 

"Please,  Miss,  please,"  said  Sherwood,  blushing, 
"don't  say  anythin'  about  it.  I  am  sure  you  are  welcome. 

60 


The  Birth  of  Love 

I  couldn't  bear  to  see  a  young  woman  like  you  go  out  in 
the  street  alone  on  such  a  night  as  this,  so  I  dared  to  ask 
you  if  I  might  go  with  you.  If  it  was  a  liberty,  I  hope  you 
will  excuse  me  and  say  nothin'  more  about  it." 

"Excuse  you — say  nothing  more  about  it  ?  Why,  Mr. 
Sherwood,  you  have  done  for  me  what  I  never  expected 
any  man  would  ever  do.  You  have  saved  my  life.  I  am 
a  poor  woman.  My  name  is  Keturah  Bain.  I  live  at  No. 
53  Mulberry  Street,  in  the  rear,  and  work  at  Rosenthal's, 
the  hatter,  on  Broadway.  I  can  never  do  anything  to 
make  up  to  you  for  what  you  have  done  for  me  to-night, 
only  I  can  think  of  you  always  as  a  brave  and  noble 
gentleman,  who  helped  me  in  my  time  of  trouble." 

Keturah  was  talking  in  a  low  voice,  looking  straight 
into  the  eyes  of  Sherwood,  her  own  gray  eyes  swimming 
in  tears.  The  young  man  flushed  with  pleasure  as  she 
spoke  to  him,  and  reaching  out  took  her  by  the  hand  and 
said : 

"Miss  Bain,  I  am  glad  I  met  you  to-night;  let  us  be 
friends,  let  me  help  you  all  I  can." 

"I  will,"  said  Keturah ;  "and  there  is  one  thing  more 
I  will  ask  you  to  do  for  me:  I  must  stay  here  to-night 
with  my  brother.  Will  you  go  to-morrow  morning  to 
my  home  and  tell  my  mother  that  I  am  here  with  brother 
Benjamin,  and  will  come  home  as  soon  as  I  can?" 

"I  will,"  said  Sherwood,  "I  will  go  to-night.  I  will 
go  home  and  let  my  mother  know  that  I  am  safe,  and  then 
will  go  down  and  tell  your  mother  what  has  happened." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Keturah,  pressing  the  hand  that 
was  holding  hers,  as  they  stood  thus  clasping  each  other's 
hands,  a  flash  of  emotion  passed  from  the  dark  eyes  of  the 
man  into  the  gray  eyes  of  the  woman,  and  a  new  love  was 
born  into  the  world. 

61 


CHAPTER  IX 

POOR  BENJAMIN 

FOR  three  days  and  nights  Benjamin  Bain  lay  uncon- 
scious, and  Keturah,  who  kept  her  watch  beside  his  bed, 
expected  every  moment  to  be  the  last.  Her  first  feeling 
under  this  fresh  stroke  of  misfortune,  was  one  of  rebellion. 
The  fortitude  which  had  sustained  her  through  all  the 
trials  of  her  life  gave  way  for  the  time,  and  she  wished 
that  she  might  die  as  Benjamin  was  dying. 

That  bitter  cry  which  has  been  wrung  from  stricken 
hearts  since  the  world  began  was  on  her  lips;  what  had 
she  done  to  deserve  such  a  fate  as  hers?  She  had  lived 
such  a  life  that  it  would  have  been  better  for  her  if  she  had 
never  been  born.  Without  any  fault  of  her  own,  so  far 
as  she  could  see,  she  was  being  punished  as  if  she  were  a 
criminal.  She  had  rather  be  in  prison  than  live  as  she 
lived :  the  dusty  workshop  all  the  day,  the  cheerless  home 
all  the  night.  Hers  was  a  life  of  toil,  rewarded  by  shame 
and  sorrow.  Never  since  a  child  had  she  known  gladness. 
Her  father's  fall  had  all  but  destroyed  her  faith  in  men, 
and  her  mother's  weakness  had  caused  her  to  despise 
women.  Her  own  life  was  polluted  by  daily  contact  with 
all  that  was  low  and  mean  and  sordid.  Why  should  she 
strive  any  longer  to  keep  it  clean  and  honest?  Why  not 
throw  it  away  as  she  had  seen  other  women  throw  their 

63 


The  Greater  Love 

lives  away  for  a  brief  hour  of  pleasure.;  or,  as  that  thought 
was  intolerable  to  Keturah,  why  not  end  it  out  yonder 
in  the  sweet  waters  of  the  river?  Keturah  loved  the 
river;  upon  it  she  had  seen  her  happiest  hours,  and  she 
imagined  herself  as  floating  out  on  the  ebb  tide,  into  the 
waters  of  the  deep  sea,  lost  to  everything  that  was  hard 
and  cruel ;  asleep  forever  in  the  waves  of  the  ocean. 

As  Keturah  looked  down  on  the  face  of  her  brother  she 
hoped  that  he  would  die,  that  was  the  best  thing  that 
could  happen  to  him ;  it  was  the  best  thing  that  could  hap- 
pen to  anybody.  She  would  be  glad  to  die  at  once  if  it 
were  not  for  Abigail.  The  remembrance  of  her  sister 
gave  a  new  bitterness  to  her  thought.  Every  person  near 
and  dear  to  her  except  Abigail  was  the  victim  of  some 
terrible  misfortune.  Her  father  was  a  drunkard,  her 
mother  under  shameful  bondage  to  opium;  and  now 
Benjamin  was  stricken  in  his  youth,  doomed  to  die,  or 
else  to  rise  from  bed,  a  hopeless  cripple  for  life.  His 
thigh  had  not  been  set,  and  Keturah  knew  that  every  hour 
of  delay  made  that  operation  more  difficult  and  danger- 
ous. She  surrendered  all  hope  of  ever  seeing  her  brother 
strong  and  well  again.  She  found  herself  wishing  that 
every  breath  might  be  the  last. 

But  when  she  thought  of  Abigail,  growing  more  and 
more  beautiful  every  day,  and  imagined  all  the  evils  that 
might  come  to  her  in  this  evil  world,  she  was  beside 
herself  with  fear  and  rage.  And  she  registered  a  vow 
in  her  soul,  saying:  "On  the  day  that  anything  happens 
to  Abigail,  I  will  surely  kill  myself." 

But  after  a  while  the  storm  in  the  soul  of  Keturah  spent 
itself,  and  she  was  calm  once  more  and  could  look  her 
trouble  in  the  face.  And  when  after  an  endless  night  of 
watching  the  morning  came,  she  was  glad  to  see  the  light. 

64 


Poor  Benjamin 

After  all  there  was  something  to  live  for ;  there  was  light 
in  the  daytime  and  sleep  at  night.  She  felt  unconsciously 
that  any  one  who  can  wake  by  day  and  sleep  by  night  need 
not  despair  altogether  of  life;  there  is  some  joy  in  the 
light  and  some  peace  in  the  darkness  for  every  soul  of 
man  or  woman. 

Keturah  found  a  sad  consolation  also  in  the  long  line 
of  cots  that  ran  on  either  side  of  the  hospital  ward,  from 
one  end  to  the  other.  On  each  cot  lay  some  suffering  man, 
beside  whom  watched  some  sorrowing  woman.  As  she 
sat  there  in  the  midst  of  the  sick  and  the  dying,  Keturah 
entered  as  never  before  into  the  fellowship  of  suffering. 
She  was  not  alone;  others  were,  as  she  was,  under  the 
hand  of  affliction.  It  was  not  some  blind  fate  that  was 
pursuing  her  and  driving  her  apart  by  herself.  She  was 
only  one  of  a  great  company,  hers  was  the  common  lot. 
As  she  grasped  this  thought  and  held  it  firmly  in  her  mind, 
her  bitterness  became  bitter-sweet  and  her  despair  was 
changed  into  resignation. 

On  the  third  day  the  physicians  set  the  broken  bones 
of  Benjamin  as  well  as  they  could  and  performed  a  deli- 
cate operation  upon  a  depression  in  his  skull,  and  on  trie 
fourth  day  he  recovered  consciousness,  and  the  physicians 
said  he  would  live. 

But  his  life,  like  his  bones,  was  broken,  and  no  one 
could  ever  make  it  again  what  it  had  been.  After  a 
month's  confinement  in  the  hospital  he  was  brought  home, 
and  was  able  to  get  about  by  the  aid  of  a  crutch.  He 
was  a  cripple  for  life,  and  his  mind  was  weakened  by  the 
blow  on  his  head.  It  was  a  year  before  he  could  think  of 
work  again.  Mr.  Morgan,  his  employer,  interested  him- 
self in  his  behalf,  but  could  find  no  place  for  him  in  the 
store.  Indeed,  there  seemed  nothing  that  the  poor  fellow 

65 


The  Greater  Love 

could  do  to  earn  a  living  and  pass  away  the  time.  In  his 
long  sickness  he  had  lost  energy  and  ambition.  Pain,  as 
it  often  does,  had  made  him  forgetful  and  selfish,  and  poor 
Keturah  had  a  third  incompetent  life  to  provide  for. 

When  Benjamin's  health  was  fairly  restored,  his  sister 
cast  in  her  mind  for  a  way  by  which  he  could  provide  for 
himself.  After  some  thought,  it  occurred  to  her  that  he 
could  at  least  do  what  Shinar  was  doing.  He  could  find 
some  sheltered  place  and  establish  a  stand  for  the  clean- 
ing and  blackening  of  boots  and  shoes.  Keturah,  with 
the  pride  of  blood  which  is  in  every  New  England  vein, 
shrank  from  the  notion  of  this  menial  labor  for  her 
brother;  but  then  menial  labor  was  better  than  idleness 
and  beggary,  and  she  determined  to  put  her  thought  into 
execution.  Shinar  made  a  good  living  in  this  way,  why 
should  not  Benjamin  do  the  same? 

So  Keturah  secured  permission  to  set  a  chair  on  the 
corner  of  Duane  Street  and  Broadway,  and  hurried  home 
to  tell  Benjamin  and  her  mother  about  it. 

She  spoke  to  her  mother  first,  saying :  "Mother,  I  have 
found  something  for  Benjamin  to  do." 

"What  is  it,  Keturah?"  asked  the  mother.  "I  hope  it 
aint  hard  work ;  Benny  can't  do  any  hard  work  now,  you 
know." 

"Yes,  mother,  I  know,  and  this  isn't  hard  work ;  there 
is  no  lifting  or  walking  to  do." 

"That's  nice,  that  would  suit  him;  I'm  glad  you've 
found  a  job  like  that  for  him.  Poor  boy,  he's  awful  tired 
of  staying  about  the  house  all  the  time.  But  what  is  the 
work,  Keturah?  You  aint  told  me  yet." 

"Well,  mother,  I  am  afraid  you  wont  like  it.  I  don't 
altogether  like  it  myself,  but  it  is  the  best  I  can  do.  The 
firm  down  stairs  has  given  me  leave  to  put  a  boot-clean- 

66 


Poor  Benjamin 

ing  stand  on  Duane  Street,  just  round  the  corner  from 
Broadway." 

"Keturah  Bain,  what  do  you  mean?  Do  you  mean 
Benjamin  to  be  a  boot-black?" 

"Yes,  mother,  it  is  the  best  I  can  do  for  him.  He 
can  make  more  at  that  than  at  anything  else." 

"O  my!  O  my!"  cried  Mrs.  Bain,  "I  knew  we  was 
low  down,  but  I  didn't  think  we  was  as  low  down  as  that. 
My  Benjamin  a  boot-black?  You  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  yourself  for  thinking  of  such  a  thing." 

"Why  ashamed,  mother?  Surely  it's  better  than  idle- 
ness. Look  at  the  boy  Shinar,  he  makes  better  wages  for 
himself  than  half  the  boys  in  the  shop." 

"O,  yes,"  cried  Mrs.  Bain,  "you're  always  talking 
about  Shinar.  I  hope  you  don't  even  your  brother  to 
that  brat  of  a  boy,  who  don't  so  much  as  know  who  his 
own  father  is." 

"It  would  be  better  for  some  of  the  rest  of  us  if  we 
didn't  know  our  father,"  said  Keturah,  sadly. 

"There  you  go,  Keturah,  speaking  against  your  father. 
You're  hard  on  him,  you're  hard  on  me,  and  now  you're 
bein'  hard  on  Ben." 

"Maybe  I  am  hard,  mother,  I'm  sure  I've  had  enough 
to  make  me  hard.  But  if  Ben  wont  do  this,  I  would  like 
you  to  tell  me  what  he  can  do." 

"Well,  I  can  tell  you  one  thing — Ben  aint  goin'  to  be 
a  boot-black,  he  aint ;  and  his  grandfather  a  Skinner." 

"What  has  Grandfather  Skinner  to  do  with  it,  mother  ? 
He  is  dead,  and  can't  do  anything  for  Ben." 

"There's  one  thing  he'll  do,  he  wont  let  his  grandson 
be  a  boot-black ;  he  was  an  honorable  man,  and  earned  his 
livin'  by  honorable  work." 

"Any  kind  of  work  is  honorable,   mother,   that  is 

67 


The  Greater  Love 

honest.  I'm  sure  Grandfather  Skinner  would  think  as  I 
do  if  he  was  here.  He  was  a  Yankee,  and  would  say  as 
Yankees  do,  if  you  can't  get  the  best,  take  the  best  you 
can  and  look  out  for  better  to-morrow." 

Keturah's  mother  answered  her  arguments  by  rock- 
ing and  crying  and  saying:  "Benjamin  shall  never  be  a 
boot-black — never,  not  if  we  all  have  to  starve.  I  ud  rather 
starve  than  see  my  boy  blacking  boots  on  the  streets. 
And  so  would  you,  Keturah,  if  you  had  any  pride." 

"But,  mother.  I  haven't  any  pride ;  what  have  I  to  be 
proud  of,  I  would  like  to  know?"  Seeing  it  was  useless 
to  continue  the  struggle,  Keturah  left  her  mother  and 
went  to  find  Benjamin.  He  was  more  set  against  her 
plan  than  his  mother.  He  wouldn't,  and  Keturah  couldn't 
make  him  be  a  boot-black. 

Finding  it  impossible  to  make  others  see  what  she  saw 
so  plainly,  that  doing  nothing  is  the  most  trying  and  most 
disgraceful  thing  in  the  world,  Keturah  gave  up  the  effort 
and  let  matters  drift.  Benjamin  spent  his  days  as  best  he 
could,  sitting  most  of  the  time  in  Price's  livery  stable, 
and  finding  some  pleasure  in  watching  the  horses  go  out 
and  come  in,  and  earning  a  few  cents  now  and  then  by 
holding  a  horse  for  some  patron  of  the  stables. 

Keturah  mourned  for  Benjamin  more  than  she 
mourned  for  her  father.  That  bright  boy  whom  she 
admired  and  from  whom  she  had  expected  so  much  was 
gone,  she  did  not  know  where,  and  in  his  place  was  this 
listless?,  idle  man.  Keturah  did  not  blame  her  brother; 
he  could  not  help  being  lame.  It  was  an  accident  of  war ; 
and  so  she  buried  the  memory  of  his  bright  and  promising 
youth  and  wrote  over  him  the  sad  epitaph  "Poor  Benja- 
min," and  poor  Benjamin  he  was  for  the  rest  of  his  life. 


68 


CHAPTER  X 

A  FORGOTTEN  MOTHER 

WHEN  John  Sherwood  left  the  hospital  and  hurried 
homeward  through  the  empty  streets  there  was  a  guilty 
feeling  in  his  heart.  That  night  he  had  done  something 
which  he  had  never  done  before.  He  had  forgotten  his 
mother.  All  his  life  he  and  his  mother  had  lived  alone, 
and  were  all  in  all  to  each  other.  He  was  her  only  son 
and  she  was  a  widow.  Before  he  could  remember  any- 
thing his  father  died  and  left  him  to  the  care  and  sup- 
port of  his  mother.  From  his  mother  he  heard  of  his 
father's  brave  life  and  his  early  death.  He  was  one  of 
that  army  of  clerks  who  give  their  lives  to  the  building 
up  of  great  fortunes  in  which  they  have  no  share.  Sher- 
wood's father  was  a  bookkeeper  in  the  establishment  of 
James  Bullet.  His  hours  were  long  and  his  pay  scanty. 
For  twelve  hours  a  day  he  sat  behind  his  desk  in  the 
dark,  dingy  office,  without  light  and  without  air,  and  as  a 
natural  consequence  his  lungs,  weak  by  inheritance,  be- 
came diseased  and  he  fell  a  victim  to  consumption.  Two 
years  before  he  was  stricken  he  had  been  improvident 
enough  to  marry  a  girl  as  poor  as  himself,  thinking  that 
what  was  enough  for  one  was  enough  for  two,  and  that 
love  would  make  up  for  all  deficiencies.  But  he  found  to 
his  sorrow,  as  others  have  done,  that  when  love  had  once 

69 


The  Greater  Love 

tied  the  knot  of  matrimony  it  had  nothing  else  that  it 
could  do ;  that  the  butcher,  the  baker,  and  the  candle-stick 
maker  had  to  be  paid  in  other  currency  than  kisses.  The 
increase  of  love  meant  the  increase  of  expenses,  and  poor 
Sherwood  went  without  many  a  necessary  dinner,  and 
denied  himself  in  the  matter  of  clothing,  so  that  Mary  and 
the  baby  might  be  warmed  and  rilled.  Thus  he  pined  and 
faded  away  behind  the  books  that  recorded  the  vast  in- 
crease of  the  Bullet  estate.  Old  Bullet,  who  was  then 
alive,  never  thought  of  giving  Sherwood  a  holiday  or  in- 
creasing his  income.  Why  should  he?  He  could  hire  a 
thousand  men  to  do  the  work  that  Sherwood  was  doing 
at  the  same  or  less  wages,  on  any  day  of  the  week.  So 
this  man  Sherwood  sickened  and  died,  and  left  his  wife  a 
widow  and  his  son  an  orphan,  and  nobody  cared.  When 
he  gave  up  his  place  to  go  home  and  die  another  man  was 
hired  to  do  his  work  before  the  sun  set.  And  when  he 
was  buried,  James  Bullet,  for  whom  he  worked  faithfully 
during  the  ten  years  of  his  active  life,  did  not  so  much  as 
know  that  he  was  dead.  Sherwood  had  left  his  employ- 
ment two  months  before  and  Bullet  had  forgotten  all 
about  him. 

When  her  husband  died  Mary  Sherwood  was  left 
penniless  upon  the  world,  and  with  her  eyes  red  with 
weeping  she  went  out  in  search  of  work  by  means  of 
which  to  earn  sufficient  to  keep  herself  and  her  baby  alive. 
She  could  do  nothing  except  plain  sewing,  which  is  the 
most  poorly  paid  labor  in  the  world.  At  that  time  the 
stores  were  just  beginning  to  sell  ready-made  underwear 
for  women  and  children,  and  Mary  Sherwood  was  given 
all  the  work  she  could  do  by  the  great  house  of  Geo.  Rip- 
son  &  Co.,  in  Grand  Street.  Her  task  was  to  finish  the 
garments  that  others  had  made,  to  work  the  buttonholes 

70 


A  Forgotten  Mother 

and  put  on  the  binding  and  trimming.  As  she  had  the 
baby  to  care  for  she  was  obliged  to  do  her  work  at  home, 
and  John  Sherwood's  first  and  only  recollection  of  his 
mother  was  that  of  a  frail,  pale  woman,  bending  over  a 
piece  of  white  goods,  through  which  she  was  ceaselessly 
passing  her  needle. 

Soon  after  her  husband's  death  Mary  Sherwood  had 
taken  some  rooms  over  a  stable  in  Rivington  Street.  The 
reason  for  this  was  that  the  rooms  were  cheap  and  warm. 
The  heat  of  the  horses  below  saved  her  many  a  dollar  in 
fuel.  The  odor  from  the  stables  was  disagreeable  and  the 
stamping  of  the  horses  disturbing;  but  Mary  Sherwood 
soon  became  accustomed  to  these  things,  and  found 
strength  in  the  pungent  smell  of  the  stall,  and  in  the  rest- 
less movement  of  the  horses,  the  only  diversion  that  her 
life  allowed  her.  These  beasts  of  burden  were  her  only 
society.  Living  as  she  did  she  could  not  go  to  see  any- 
body, and  no  one  ever  came  to  see  her.  Her  life  was  spent 
in  work  and  in  prayer.  She  did  not  go  to  church,  that 
was  too  expensive ;  but  she  prayed  night  and  morning  be- 
side his  bed  for  her  sleeping  boy.  Her  desire  for  him  was 
a  life  of  honest,  healthful  labor.  She  sent  him  to  school 
until  he  was  sixteen  years  old,  and  then  she  apprenticed 
him  to  the  plumbing  trade.  From  the  first  she  determined 
that  he  should  not  follow  in  his  father's  steps  and  drudge 
out  his  life  for  a  pittance  in  some  dark,  dreary  office ;  but 
that  his  work  should  be  active  and  carry  him  out  of  doors, 
and  have  within  it  some  hope  of  advancement.  Through 
the  kindness  of  one  of  the  stable  men  she  heard  of  an 
opening  for  a  boy  in  the  plumbing  establishment  of  Gar- 
lock  &  Son,  on  Second  Avenue  near  Tenth  Street,  and 
there  she  placed  her  boy,  and  there  he  had  served  his  ap- 
prenticeship, and  there  he  was,  at  the  opening  of  this  nar- 


The  Greater  Love 

rative,  working  as  a  journeyman  plumber.  He  and  his 
mother  still  lived  in  the  rooms  over  the  stable  in  Rivington 
Street,  not  because  it  was  any  longer  absolutely  necessary 
for  them  to  do  so,  but  because  it  had  been  their  home  for 
so  long  that  they  did  not  care  to  change  it  for  another, 
and  further,  because  John  was  saving  his  wages,  hoping 
by  the  time  he  was  thirty  or  so  to  set  himself  up  as  a 
master  plumber. 

On  the  night  when  John  Sherwood  went  with  Keturah 
Bain  to  look  for  her  lost  brother,  his  mother  was  waiting 
for  him  at  home  with  an  anxious  heart.  He  had  never 
been  away  from  her  so  long  before  in  his  life.  When  his 
day's  work  was  done  he  was  always  at  home,  except  when 
he  went,  as  he  did  in  the  winter  evenings,  to  the  night 
school  in  the  Cooper  Institute.  So  it  was  not  without 
reason  that  his  mother's  heart  beat  with  alarm  as  he  de- 
layed his  coming.  It  was  in  the  early  morning  hours 
when  she  heard  his  key  turning  in  the  night  latch  of  the 
street  door.  At  this  sound  the  mother  rose  up  and  went 
and  opened  the  door  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  that  her  boy 
might  have  light  to  see  his  way  up.  She  stood  there  at 
the  open  door  waiting  for  him.  She  was  a  small  woman, 
slight  and  bent,  with  a  worn  face  and  gray  hair  which 
struggled  out  from  under  the  widow's  cap  that  she  had 
worn  ever  since  the  day  she  had  laid  her  husband  away 
in  his  grave.  As  she  stood  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  she 
peered  into  the  darkness  below,  shading  her  eyes  with 
her  poor  fingers,  scarred  and  wounded  by  the  pricks  of 
countless  needles ;  looking  to  see  if  it  were,  indeed,  her 
son  who  was  coming  up  the  stairs.  When  John  reached 
the  top  of  the  stairs  and  saw  his  mother  standing  there, 
his  conscience  troubled  him  because  he  had  kept  her  wait- 
ing up  so  long  for  him. 

72 


A  Forgotten  Mother 


"Why,  mother  dear,"  he  said,  "aint  you  gone  to  bed 
yet?  It's  most  mornin'." 

"Do  you  think  I  could  go  to  bed,  John,  and  you  out  in 
the  streets  at  this  time  o'  night  ?  Wherever  have  you  been, 
my  son,  wherever  have  you  been,  to  keep  your  mother 
waitin'  for  you  till  her  head  aches.  You  never  did  so  be- 
fore. And  what  in  the  world  is  the  matter?"  cried  the 
mother,  in  alarm,  as  she  caught  sight  of  John's  arm  in  a 
sling. 

"Nothin'  very  much,  mother,"  cried  John.  "Only 
there  is  a  little  bone  in  my  arm  that's  broke.  You  know 
there's  been  wild  times  on  the  street  to-day.  The  soldiers 
have  been  puttin'  down  the  riot,  they  fired  on  the  mob  and 
killed  ever  so  many,  and  hurt  a  good  many  more." 

"But,  my  son,  you  did  not  mix  up  in  the  riot,  did  you? 
How  then  did  you  come  to  be  hurt  ?" 

"You  see,  mother,  it  was  this  way.  We  are  workin' 
in  the  new  buildin'  at  the  corner  of  Warren  Street  and 
Broadway.  At  about  noon  we  heard  the  soldiers  marchin' 
down  Broadway  and  ran  out  to  see  what  was  goin'  on. 
There  was  an  awful  crowd  there  and  when  the  soldiers 
came  along  they  was  all  yellin'  and  pushin'  like  mad  peo- 
ple. I  got  up  on  one  of  the  iron  columns  so  as  I  could 
see  better,  and  then  the  rush  came  and  threw  me  off,  and 
broke  one  of  the  bones  in  my  wrist." 

"O,  John,"  cried  the  mother,  in  great  distress,  "what 
did  you  do  then  ?  Why  didn't  you  come  right  home  ?" 

"You  see,  mother,  I  knew  I  ud  have  to  do  somethin' 
right  away,  so  I  went  down  to  the  Chambers  Street 
station,  and  they  told  me  to  wait  and  the  police  surgeon 
would  do  what  he  could  for  me.  So  I  waited  till  about 
four  o'clock,  when  one  of  the  surgeons  set  the  bone;  it 
was  only  a  little  bone  and  the  surgeon  says  it  ull  be  all 
right  in  a  week  or  two." 

73 


The  Greater  Love 

"It  must  have  pained  you  awful,  John,  and  I  wonder 
you  didn't  come  home  as  soon  as  it  was  set  and  lay  down. 
Where  have  you  been  all  the  night?" 

"Well,  mother,  it  did  pain  me  some,  but  not  so  very 
much,  and  just  as  I  was  leavin'  the  station  to  come  home, 
a  girl  came  in  who  had  lost  her  brother.  The  sergeant 
told  her  she  ud  have  to  go  to  Bellevue  or  to  the  morgue 
if  she  wanted  to  find  him,  'cause  the  dead  and  the  wounded 
were  there.  And  I  felt  awful  sorry  for  the  girl,  she  was 
so  young  and  so  pretty.  I  knew  she  hadn't  ought  to  be 
out  such  a  night  as  this  alone  in  the  streets,  so  I  offered 
to  go  with  her  to  look  for  her  brother,  and  I  did  and  we 
found  him,  badly  hurt  in  the  hospital." 

"Ah,  John,  my  son,"  said  the  mother,  sadly,  "you  went 
with  this  girl  and  you  forgot  your  mother." 

"No,  mother,  I  didn't  forget  you,  that  is  not  for  long. 
When  I  was  goin'  through  the  mob,  I  didn't  think  about 
much  else  'cept  keepin'  those  murderin'  brutes  away  from 
that  girl,  and  in  the  dead  house  I  couldn't  think  about 
nothin'  but  those  dead  men  settin'  up  and  starin'  at  you 
with  their  eyes  wide  open,  and  never  winkin'  so  much  as 
an  eyelash.  I  tell  you,  mother,  it  was  awful.  But  when 
we  found  the  boy  in  the  hospital  then  I  remembered  you, 
and  told  the  girl  I  must  hurry  home  and  tell  you  all  about 
it." 

"But,  John,"  said  the  mother,  "the  girl — do  you  know 
who  she  is ;  what  is  her  name  and  where  does  she  live  ?" 

"Yes,  mother,  she  told  me  her  name,  it's  Bain,  or 
something  like  that.  Keturah  Bain,  I  think  she  said,  and 
she  lives  down  in  Mulberry  Street  at  No.  53  in  the  rear." 

"Oh,"  said  the  mother,  contemptuously,  "if  she  lives 
in  Mulberry  Street,  she  is  some  low,  wretched  creature, 
some  Irish  or  Italian  girl.  I  wonder  that  you  went  out 
of  your  way  for  her." 

74 


A  Forgotten  Mother 

"No,  mother,  she  aint  that  kind  of  a  girl  and  you 
mustn't  speak  so  of  her,"  said  John. 

"Mustn't!"  cried  the  mother,  flushing  with  anger. 
"Since  when  did  you  begin  to  say  mustn't  to  your  mother? 
Since  you  picked  this  girl  up  off  the  street  ?" 

"Mother,  dear,"  said  John,  "you  hadn't  ought  to  get 
mad  at  me,  I  aint  done  nothin'  wrong.  Even  if  she  was 
an  Irish  girl,  you  would  want  me  to  help  her  if  I  could. 
But  she  aint  that  kind  of  a  girl.  She  is  an  American  girl. 
She  speaks  beautifully.  So  that  I  was  'shamed  of  my- 
self." 

"You've  no  cause  to  be  'shamed,  John,  only  I  know  you 
have  picked  up  a  careless  way  of  talkin'  at  the  shop, 
leaving  off  your  g's  at  the  end  of  words  and  the  like  o' 
that ;  but  this  Miss  didn't  say  anythin'  to  you  about  that, 
did  she?" 

"Why,  no,  mother,  o'  course  not,  only  she  spoke  so  nice 
and  sweet  that  I  knew  she  had  been  to  school  more'n  I 
had,  and  I  couldn't  and  don't  understand  her  livin'  in 
Mulberry  Street.  It  aint  right  for  the  likes  o'  her  to  be 
livin'  in  such  a  street  as  that." 

"It  seems  to  me,  John,  that  you  have  been  thinkin'  a 
good  deal  about  that  girl,  seein'  that  you've  only  known 
her  since  sundown.  And  I'm  afraid,"  said  the  mother, 
laying  her  hands  on  the  shoulders  of  her  boy  and  looking 
into  his  eyes,  where  she  saw  to  her  dismay  a  light  that  had 
never  been  there  before,  a  light  such  as  she  saw  in  his 
father's  eyes,  when  he  took  her  in  his  arms,  two  and 
twenty  years  before,  and  asked  her  to  be  his  wife.  "I'm 
afraid,"  she  repeated,  tearfully,  "that  you'll  be  thinkin' 
more  and  more  of  this  girl  and  less  and  less  of  your 
mother  every  day  now." 

"Why,  mother,  how  you  talk!   You're  tired  and  that 

75 


The  Greater  Love 

makes  you  foolish.  This  girl  aint  nothin'  to  me,  and  I 
aint  nothin'  to  her.  It  was  only  by  chance  I  met  her  to- 
night and  I  don't  know  as  I'll  ever  see  her  again." 

"You  know  where  she  lives,  don't  you,  John  ?" 

"Yes,  mother." 

"Then  you'll  see  her  again,  all  right  enough,  and  she'll 
see  you.  Why  don't  you  take  off  your  coat  and  get  ready 
for  bed?  It's  most  mornin'.  If  we're  goin'  to  get  any 
sleep  before  daybreak  we  had  better  be  about  it." 

"But  I  aint  goin'  to  bed,  mother.  I  was  thinkin'  to  go 
down  to  Mulberry  Street  and  tell  the  girl's  mother  where 
she  is  and  that  she  has  found  the  boy.  I  promised  her  I 
would." 

"Oh,  you  promised  her  that,  did  you  ?  And  yet  you  aint 
nothin'  to  her  nor  she  to  you,  you  say.  What  makes  you 
run  about  for  her  all  night  then  if  you  don't  care  for  her  ?" 

"Because  I  promised  her,  and  I  don't  like  to  break  my 
promise,  mother." 

"Yes,  John,  and  you'll  be  makin'  more  and  more 
promises  to  her  and  you'll  keep  'em  even  if  it  does  break 
your  mother's  heart." 

"Oh,  pshaw!  mother,  what's  the  matter  with  you  to- 
night ?  Do  go  to  bed  and  go  to  sleep.  I  will  run  down  to 
Mulberry  Street  and  will  be  back  in  an  hour.  I  aint  goin' 
to  forget  you  because  I've  been  tryin'  to  do  somethin'  for 
somebody  else.  There,  there,  be  a  good  mother  and  don't 
cry.  There  isn't  nothin'  to  cry  about."  And  John  kissed 
his  mother  and  hastened  out  into  the  street,  leaving  her 
to  live  through  that  sad  hour  which  comes  to  every 
mother  when  she  knows  that  her  boy  is  her  boy  no  longer. 
He  is  a  man  now  and  is  another  woman's  lover. 


CHAPTER  XI 

AN  ANNUAL  PROPOSAL 

WHAT  John's  mother  feared,  came  to  pass.  He  did 
think  more  and  more  of  Keturah  Bain  every  day.  While 
his  wrist  was  healing  he  could  not  work  and  he  spent  his 
idle  time  in  anything  but  idleness.  He  went  every  day 
to  the  hospital  to  see  how  Benjamin  was  getting  on  and 
in  the  evening  he  and  Keturah  would  go  up  together  to 
visit  the  boy.  When  Benjamin  was  brought  home,  John 
Sherwood  continued  his  visits  and  established  himself  as 
a  friend  of  the  family.  Keturah  loved  him  from  the  very 
first,  but  she  tried  hard  not  to  let  him  know  it.  She  knew 
that  neither  he  nor  she  were  ready  for  marriage.  He  had 
his  mother  and  she  her  family  to  care  for.  They  could 
undertake  new  duties  only  by  forsaking  old  ones.  And  this 
the  stern  New  England  conscience  would  not  permit 
Keturah  to  do. 

She  tried  several  times  to  send  John  away,  knowing 
that  she  ought  not  to  encourage  his  attentions,  but  he 
would  not  go.  Day  after  day,  month  after  month,  and 
year  after  year  he  came  to  her,  bringing  with  him  his 
honest  heart  and  his  loyal  soul,  saying: 

"Keturah,  I've  been  lovin'  you  ever  since  I  saw  you 
that  night  in  the  station-house,  will  you  marry  me?" 
Then  Keturah  would  laugh  and  say:  "No,  John,  I  will 
never  marry  you  until  you  can  say  your  g's." 

77 


The  Greater  Love 

At  this  poor  John  would  blush  with  shame  and  go  his 
way,  and  for  a  week  he  would  absent  himself  from  his 
lady  love,  saying  his  g's  over  and  over  to  himself,  until  he 
had  them  on  the  end  of  his  tongue.  Then  he  would  come 
again  and  say:  "Keturah,  I've  been  loving  (with  the 
accent  on  the  g)  you  ever  since  I  saw  you  that  night  at 
the  station-house ;  will  you  marry  me  ?  You  hadn't  ought 
to  treat  me  the  way  you  do." 

"O,  John !"  Keturah  cried  merrily,  "how  can  you  ex- 
pect me  to  marry  a  man  who  says  'hadn't  ought'  for  ought 
not  ?  It  can  never,  never  be." 

On  hearing  this  John  would  look  at  her  with  tears  in 
his  eyes  and  say :  "It  aint  right,  Keturah,  to  make  fun  o' 
me.  If  you  don't  care  for  me,  say  so,  and  I  will  try  to 
bear  it ;  but  it's  cruel  of  you  to  pick  me  up  the  way  you  do. 
I  know  I  can't  speak  like  you  do.  But,  Keturah,  don't  you 
see  that  I'm  learnin'.  No,  no,  I  mean  learning  to  speak 
more  correct  every  day,  and  if  you'll  only  marry  me  I'll 
learn  from  you  your  own  way  o'  speakin' ;  there  now,  I 
mean  your  own  way  of  speaking." 

"O,  foolish  John,"  Keturah  cried,  "you  don't  think  I 
care  so  very  much  about  the  way  you  speak  although  I 
do  like  you  to  speak  correctly ;  but  that  is  not  the  reason 
why  I  cannot  marry  you." 

"What  is  the  reason  then,  Keturah?"  says  John. 

"Ask  me  some  other  time,"  says  she,  "and  maybe  I 
will  tell  you." 

And  John  did  ask  her  over  and  over  again.  In  season 
and  out  of  season  he  pressed  his  suit.  Keturah  did  not 
resent  his  importunity.  She  found  it  pleasant  to  have  a 
lover  devoted  to  her  every  wish,  but  while  she  listened  she 
had  never  said  "yes"  to  John's  asking. 

And  every  year  her  lover  made  what  Keturah  called 

78 


his  "annual  proposal."  This  was  a  solemn,  formal 
declaration  of  his  love  under  romantic  circumstances  that 
gave  to  it  a  dignity  and  a  power  that  Keturah  found  it 
hard  to  resist.  It  was  at  the  seaside,  down  on  Far  Rock- 
away  Beach,  and  the  occasion  was  the  annual  excursion 
of  the  Journeymen  Plumbers'  Union.  John  would  never 
go  to  this  picnic  unless  Keturah  went  with  him,  and  she, 
knowing  how  much  he  needed  the  outing,  would  never 
refuse  him. 

After  the  clam  chowder  was  eaten  and  the  people  who 
had  sat  down  to  eat  and  drink,  rose  up  to  play  and  the  men 
and  the  women  were  whirling  round  in  the  mazes  of  the 
waltz,  John  and  Keturah  would  wander  off  by  themselves, 
out  of  the  sight  of  the  people  and  out  of  the  sound  of  the 
music,  and  hide  themselves  beside  some  hillock  of  sand, 
and  there  they  would  sit  and  watch  the  great  waves  roll 
in  and  break  against  the  shore  and  listen  to  the  seabirds 
crying  one  to  another,  and  then  John  would  reach  out  and 
take  the  woman's  hand  in  his  and  say,  "Keturah,  will  you 
marry  me?"  To  which  Keturah  answered  sadly,  "No, 
John,  I  cannot." 

"Why  not,  Keturah?" 

"Because  we  are  poor." 

"But,  Keturah,  that  aint  any  reason ;  poor  people  marry 
every  day." 

"I  know  they  do,  John,  and  the  more's  the  pity,  and 
the  more's  the  misery." 

"We  ain't  so  very  poor,  Keturah,"  pleaded  John,  "I'm 
gettin',  I  mean  getting,  good  wages ;  enough  to  keep  us 
two  in  comfort,  I'm  sure." 

"Yes,  John,  us  two.  But  we  two  are  not  all  that  are 
to  be  kept.  There  are  others  beside  us." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  John,  "there's  mother,  but  she 

79 


The  Greater  Love 

could  live  with  us,  and  we  would  have  enough  for  her, 
too." 

"Yes,  John,"  said  Keturah,  "we  could  easily  take  care 
of  your  mother,  that  would  be  your  duty  and  my  pleasure. 
I  have  learned  to  love  your  mother  dearly  and  nothing  I 
could  ever  do  for  her  would  be  a  trouble  to  me.  But  then, 
you  know,  John,  there  are  others  beside  your  mother  to  be 
taken  care  of." 

"I  know,  Keturah,  there  are  your  people  ;  but  don't  you 
think  you've  done  enough  for  them,  and  might  think  of 
me  and  yourself  ?" 

"Now,  John,  you  are  talking  like  a  selfish  man,  not 
like  my  hero,  who  risked  his  life  for  an  unknown  girl,  the 
night  of  the  draft  riots.  Do  you  think  I  could  go  away 
and  be  married,  and  be  happy  ever  after,  as  the  story 
books  say,  and  know  that  Abigail  was,  perhaps,  running 
loose  on  the  streets,  and  Benjamin  had  no  one  to  look 
after  his  clothing  and  father  and  mother  might  be  sent  to 
the  Island  as  vagrants?  I  be  happy  in  my  happy  home, 
and  all  my  people  shut  out  in  misery  and  want!  You 
don't  think  it,  John,  I  know  you  don't  think  it." 

"No,  Keturah,  T  don't ;  but  it's  awful  hard  to  think  of 
you  giving  all  your  life  for  others,  and  not  having  the 
least  bit  of  it  for  yourself." 

"I  know  it's  hard,  John,  but  that  don't  make  it  any  the 
less  right.  Most  right  things  are  hard  in  this  world,  so 
far  as  I  can  see.  But  there  are  others  beside  your  mother 
and  my  mother  and  father  and  Ben  and  Abigail  that  we 
ought  to  think  of  before  we  marry ;  people  to  whom  our 
marriage  will  mean  more  than  to  any  persons  else  in  all 
the  world." 

"Why,  who  be  they,  Keturah  ?" 

"Who  are  they  ?    John,  who  else  but  our  children  ?" 


An  Annual  Proposal 

"Keturah,  how  you  talk!    We  aint  got  no  children." 

"Pardon  me,  John,  we  haven't  any  now,  but  if  we  were 
married  we  would  have  them  or  we  ought  to  have  them, 
and,  John  dear,  I  love  my  children  too  well  to  let  them 
be  born  into  such  a  world  as  you  and  I  must  live  in." 

"What  is  the  use  in  bein'  so  foolish,  Keturah  ?  It's  time 
enough  to  worry  about  the  children  when  they  come.  You 
aint  got  no  children  now,  maybe  you  never  will  have  any." 

"Yes,  I  have  children,  John;  I've  had  children  ever 
since  I  was  a  little  girl.  Eight  children,  John,  five  boys 
and  three  girls.  I  know  all  their  names  and  the  color  of 
their  hair  and  eyes.  They  come  to  me  at  night  when  I  am 
asleep  and  they  call  me  'mother,'  and  I  take  them  one  by 
one  in  my  arms  and  kiss  them  and  I  rock  the  baby  to 
sleep." 

"But  if  you  are  so  fond  o'  children,"  said  John, 
"Keturah,  why  don't  you  have  real  children  instead  of 
dream  children?" 

"Because,  John  dear,"  said  Keturah,  looking  with  sad 
eyes  out  over  the  sea,  "because  my  dream  children  can 
never  be  hungry  nor  cold,  they  can  never  learn  to  drink 
and  to  swear;  they  never  have  to  work  until  they  are  so 
tired  that  they  are  ready  to  die,  if  only  they  can  rest.  My 
dream  boys  never  have  to  lie  and  cheat,  and  my  dream 
girls  can  never  be  deceived  and  led  astray  by  wicked  men. 
My  dream  children  are  happy  and  I  leave  them  in  their 
happiness." 

"That  means  that  you  will  never  marry  me,  Keturah." 

"No,  John,  it  doesn't  mean  that  exactly,  it  means  that 
I  will  never  marrv  and  have  children  to  live  in  such 
places  as  you  and  I  live  in.  I  never  see  a  child  in  our  part 
of  the  city  without  wondering  why  it  was  ever  born.  It 
has  no  chance  from  the  first  to  live  a  decent  life.  Some- 
Si 


The  Greater  Love 

body  is  to  blame,  I  don't  know  who  except  the  father  and 
mother  who  bring  it  into  the  world.  I  will  never  be  a 
mother  until  I  am  sure  that  my  children  can  have  light 
for  their  eyes  and  air  to  breathe  and  water  to  wash  them- 
selves clean." 

"When  that  day  comes  will  you  marry  me,  Keturah  ?" 
said  John. 

"Yes,  and  it  may  come  sooner  than  you  think.  It  wont 
be  long  before  Abigail  will  graduate  from  the  Normal 
College  and  then  she  will  get  a  position  as  teacher  in  the 
schools,  somewhere  in  the  West  Side,  I  hope,  and  we  can 
go  over  on  Union  Hill  and  find  a  double  cottage,  such 
as  I  have  seen  there,  and  my  folks  can  live  on  one  side 
and  you  and  your  wife  and  your  mother  on  the  other,  and 
my  children  can  play  in  the  yard  behind  the  house  and  we 
will  be  happy  as  happy  can  be." 

"Then  you  do  love  me,  Keturah,  and  will  marry  me 
when  you  can?" 

"Yes,  I  love  you,  John,  with  all  my  heart,  and  will 
marry  you  just  as  soon  as  I  can." 

"And  may  I  kiss  you,  just  once,  Keturah?" 

"Yes,  John,  you  may,  just  once." 

And  John  did. 


82 


CHAPTER  XII 

RAIMENT   OF    NEEDLEWORK 

IT  has  been  necessary  to  give  a  brief  account  of  the 
life  of  Keturah  Bain  up  to  the  day  when  we  first  saw 
her  going  into  her  house  in  Mulberry  Street  in  the  spring 
of  1871.  Without  this  background  the  picture  that  is  to 
follow  would  not  have  its  proper  perspective.  Keturah 
Bain  had  not  lived  her  thirty  years  alone.  She  was  the 
center  of  a  little  group  of  human  beings,  and  it  was  her 
relation  to  these  people  that  made  her  life  to  be  what  it 
was,  a  life  of  care  and  sorrow  and  self-sacrifice.  She 
was  the  one  strong  personality  in  the  midst  of  a  company 
of  weaklings,  and  her  strength  was  taxed  to  the  utmost 
in  taking  care  of  those  who  had  lost  the  power  to  take 
care  of  themselves.  Keturah  had  long  ceased  to  expect 
anything  in  particular  from  her  father,  her  mother,  or 
her  brother  Benjamin.  Her  hope  centered  in  her  sister 
Abigail,  who  was  just  finishing  her  course  in  the  Normal 
College,  and  was  preparing  herself  for  the  profession  of 
teaching.  Keturah  had  looked  forward  to  Abigail's  grad- 
uation as  to  a  day  of  deliverance.  When  the  girl,  instead 
of  being  a  source  of  expense,  should  be  earning  some- 
thing for  the  family  purse,  Keturah  calculated  that  they 
could  afford  to  leave  the  darkness  and  dampness  and  dirt 
of  No.  53  Mulberry  Street  in  the  rear,  which  was  growing 

83 


The  Greater  Love 

more  intolerable  every  day,  and  move  into  some  better 
locality,  or  best  of  all,  cross  the  river  and  live  on  the 
Jersey  hills,  a  thing  which  Keturah  wanted  to  do  more 
than  anything  else  in  the  world.  Her  day-dream  was  of 
a  quiet  cottage  on  a  quiet  street  in  Union  Hill,  with  yard 
enough  about  the  house  for  a  little  garden,  with  holly- 
hocks and  larkspurs,  such  as  used  to  bloom  in  their  own 
little  yard,  before  the  great  tenement  was  built.  Keturah 
did  not  know  just  how  they  could  live  in  Union  Hill,  and 
Abigail  teach  in  New  York  City,  but  she  thought  her 
father  could  manage  it  somehow.  He  had  a  little  political 
influence  and  might  get  Mr.  Cronin  or  Mr.  Flynn  to  do 
something.  He  could  still  vote  in  the  ward,  even  if  he 
did  live  in  Union  Hill.  They  were  not  as  particular 
about  such  things  then  as  they  are  now  in  the  city  of 
New  York. 

So  as  Keturah  lay  dozing  in  the  dark  room  off  the 
dining-room,  which  was  her  sleeping-room,  she  was  a 
very  child,  dreaming  her  day-dreams  and  painting  the 
dark  clouds  of  her  life  with  the  rainbow  hues  of  hope. 
And  on  the  rainbow,  clothed  with  its  bright  colors,  sat 
Abigail  Bain,  the  last  remaining  hope  of  the  Bain  family. 

Keturah  lay  half  asleep  until  about  three  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon,  when  she  was  awakened  by  the  opening 
of  the  front  door  into  the  hall.  Knowing  it  was  her 
sister  she  called  to  her,  saying : 

"Abigail !" 

"Yes,  Keturah,"  came  the  answer  in  a  sweet,  girlish 
voice. 

"How  is  it  out  of  doors,  dear?"  cried  Keturah.  "It 
was  raining  when  I  came  in ;  is  it  raining  still  ?" 

"Oh,  no;  it's  clearing  off,  and  is  a  beautiful  after- 
noon." 

84 


Raiment  of  Needlework 

"Are  you  very  tired,  Abigail  ?" 

"No,  I  am  not  tired.  I  rode  all  the  way  home  to-day, 
because  it  was  raining  when  I  started." 

"Well,  dear,  keep  on  your  hat  and  coat,  for  I  want  to 
take  a  walk;  I  have  a  bad  headache  and  the  air  will  do 
me  good." 

"All  right,  Keturah,  I'll  be  glad  to  go.  I've  something 
to  tell  you." 

Keturah  rose  up  from  her  bed,  and  putting  on  her 
hat  and  coat,  went  out  for  a  walk  with  her  sister.  This 
was  one  of  the  pleasures  of  her  life.  She  loved  to  take 
Abigail  and  go  down  to  the  river  and  bathe  her  soul  in 
the  light  of  the  sun,  in  the  freshness  of  the  air,  and  in  the 
beauty  of  the  water.  Her  favorite  walk  was  along  South 
Street,  which,  thirty  years  ago,  was  much  quieter  than  it 
is  now.  It  was  the  ship-chandlers'  street,  and  was  piled 
high  with  barrels  and  was  redolent  of  the  smell  of  tarry 
ropes.  It  is  a  wide  street,  open  on  the  water  side,  with 
a  view  up  and  down  the  river,  and  the  city  of  Brooklyn 
over  the  way.  Keturah  loved  this  street  as  she  loved  no 
other  place  in  the  world;  it  was  her  recreation  ground. 
Here  she  came  in  that  spring  day  in  1871  with  her  sister 
Abigail,  to  walk  away  her  headache.  And  with  every  step 
she  felt  herself  growing  better.  She  went  blithely  round 
the  coils  of  ropes  and  in  between  the  barrels,  and  felt  as 
young  and  frisky  as  a  girl.  She  was  always  happy  when 
she  was  out  here  in  the  open  air  with  Abigail  by  her  side. 

Abigail  Bain  was  at  that  time  in  her  nineteenth  year, 
and  was  in  all  the  freshness  and  beauty  of  her  opening 
womanhood.  It  is  astonishing  what  nature  will  do  for  a 
girl,  even  in  the  dark  streets  and  alleys  of  the  tenement- 
district.  The  stranger  will  see,  in  those  streets,  young 
women  who  in  beauty  of  face  and  perfection  of  form,  are 

85 


The  Greater  Love 

not  surpassed  by  the  women  who  live  in  elegant  homes 
on  quiet  streets  and  wide  avenues.  Abigail  Bain  was  not, 
however,  a  girl  of  the  tenement  district,  by  birth  and  by 
education;  she  belonged  to  a  different  class.  From  the 
very  first,  it  had  been  the  effort  of  Keturah  to  remove  Abi- 
gail as  far  as  possible  from  her  home  surroundings.  She 
had  her  transferred  to  a  school  in  the  upper  part  of  the 
city,  where  she  would  meet  with  nice  children,  and  when 
she  had  finished  at  the  grammar  school,  Keturah  had  her 
enter  the  Normal  College,  in  which  she  was  the  compan- 
ion of  many  of  the  best  girls  in  the  city,  to  say  nothing 
of  the  boys. 

In  coloring  and  in  her  general  features,  Abigail 
favored  her  mother's  side  of  the  house;  tall  and  slender, 
though  with  a  tendency  to  stoutness  that  would  develop 
later  in  life,  chestnut  hair  that  clustered  in  short,  be- 
witching curls  about  her  face  and  neck,  large  innocent 
blue  eyes  that  looked  at  you  when  you  spoke  to  her  with 
surprise  and  wonder,  a  small,  delicately  formed  nose  and 
mouth  that  puckered  into  a  whistle,  cheeks  with  a  faint 
peach-blow  bloom,  a  rounded  chin,  a  long,  graceful  neck, 
set  upon  shoulders  that  tapered  into  well-rounded  arms, 
ending  in  long,  narrow  hands  which  had  the  delicate 
coloring  of  her  cheeks ;  she  was,  in  her  whole  figure  and 
personality,  instinct  with  the  subtle  power  of  feminality. 

Abigail  was  not  yet  conscious  of  her  power.  She 
was  in  that  early  stage  of  womanly  development  when 
the  woman  looks  upon  her  nature,  not  as  a  force  to  in- 
fluence and  control  others,  but  as  a  means  of  personal 
enjoyment  for  herself. 

The  two  women  continued  their  walk  as  far  up  as 
Corlaers  Street;  that  old  quaint  street  with  its  Dutch 
houses,  the  houses  of  the  descendants  of  the  Dutch  burgh- 

86 


Raiment  of  Needlework 

ers  who  once  had  lived  in  their  boweries  along  the  river 
side.  And  as  they  walked,  the  sisters  communed  with 
each  other  of  what  was  in  their  hearts.  Keturah  told 
Abigail  that  she  was  on  half-time  and  the  family  would 
have  to  economize,  if  they  were  to  keep  a  roof  over  their 
heads  and  bread  on  their  table. 

"Oh,  dear!"  said  Abigail,  "I  am  so  sorry,  and  my 
graduation  coming  on  that  is  going  to  cost  ever  so  much. 
But  I  haven't  told  you  the  news  yet." 

"No,  dearie,  you  haven't;  what  is  it?" 

"Mr.  Hunter  sent  for  me  and  told  me  I  was  to  have 
the  Latin  Salutatory  at  the  Commencement.  He  said 
I  came  very  near  having  the  Valedictory.  Philip  Schuy- 
ler,  who  gets  it,  was  only  three  points  ahead  of  me." 

"Bless  you,  Abigail !"  cried  Keturah ;  "how  delightful ! 
I  knew  you  would  stand  very  high  in  your  class,  you 
learn  so  easily,  but  I  didn't  suppose  you  would  be  second 
and  nearly  first.  That  is  just  grand ;  it  is  worth  all  the 
work  and  the  waiting." 

"Yes,  it  is,  but  I  am  glad  the  work  is  over.  I'm  tired 
to  death  of  books.  I  don't  believe  I  will  ever  look  in  a 
book  again  as  long  as  I  live." 

"Why,  Abigail,  how  can  you  talk  in  that  way?  And 
you  expecting  to  earn  your  living  by  teaching.  You 
will  have  to  keep  at  your  books  if  you  are  to  get  on  in 
your  work." 

"Oh,  I  suppose  so,  but  I  hate  the  thought  of  it.  I 
think  I'd  rather  do  anything  else  in  the  world  than  teach." 

"But,  Abigail,"  cried  Keturah  in  alarm  and  distress, 
"you  can't  do  anything  else.  If  you  do,  all  the  time  and 
the  money  you  have  spent  in  the  Normal  College  will  be 
wasted.  You  went  there,  you  know,  to  prepare  yourself 
to  be  a  teacher." 

87 


The  Greater  Love 

"I  know  that,  Keturah,  but  I  hate  the  thought  of  it  all 
the  same,  and  I  wont  be  a  teacher  very  long,  I  can  tell 
you." 

"Abigail,  Abigail,  what  are  you  saying?  I've  been 
looking  forward  for  years  to  your  graduation,  when  you 
could  help  me  take  care  of  the  family." 

"Oh,  the  family,"  cried  Abigail,  with  a  toss  of  her 
head,  "I'm  disgusted  with  the  family.  Pa's  drunk  most 
of  the  time  and  Ma's  stupid  and  Ben  is  lazy  and  we  live 
in  a  dark,  dirty  hole  that  isn't  fit  for  a  dog.  I  tell  you 
one  thing,  Keturah,  I'm  not  going  to  slave  for  the  family 
the  way  you  have  done.  I  am  going  to  live  for  myself, 
not  for  a  lot  of  other  people." 

These  flippant  words  cut  Keturah  to  the  heart,  and 
her  eyes  filled  with  tears  and  her  lips  quivered,  and  she 
was  about  ready  to  cry.  But  then  she  was  used  to  her 
sister's  way  of  talking.  The  child  was  discontented  with 
her  home  and  well  she  might  be.  It  was  no  place  for 
such  a  bright,  beautiful  creature  as  the  young  girl  beside 
her.  In  a  few  moments  Keturah  controlled  her  feelings 
of  sorrowful  indignation  and  said  quietly :  "What  will 
you  need  for  your  graduation,  Abigail,  any  new  dresses  ?" 

"Yes,  Keturah,  that  was  what  I  wanted  to  speak  to 
you  about.  I  don't  see  how  I  can  get  along  without  three 
dresses,  at  the  very  least.  I  will  want  one  for  class  day. 
That  ought  to  be  a  street  gown.  Some  kind  of  cloth  for 
the  skirt  and  jacket  with  a  silk  underwaist.  Then  I 
ought  to  have  an  evening  dress  for  the  graduation  ball, 
and  a  light,  high-cut  dress  for  the  commencement  exer- 
cises, and  beside  the  dresses  I  will  need  gloves  and  shoes, 
a  handkerchief  and  a  fan." 

As  Abigail  enumerated  her  wants  Keturah  laughed 
merrily.  "You  must  think,"  she  saxl,  "that  we  are  the 


Raiment  of  Needlework 

Astors.  Where  in  the  world  do  you  think  all  those  things 
are  to  come  from?" 

"I  don't  suppose  they  are  to  come  from  anywhere.  I 
will  have  to  go,  if  I  go  at  all,  in  the  shabby  dress  which 
I  have  worn  all  the  year,  with  nothing  on  my  hands  and 
patched  shoes  on  my  feet.  No,  thank  you !  I  wont  go  at 
all.  I'll  tell  Mr.  Hunter  I  can't  come  to  commencement 
and  he  can  give  the  Salutatory  to  Maud  Atkins ;  what  she 
lacks  in  scholarship  she  makes  up  in  money  and  dresses. 
It  was  a  shame  to  send  me  to  a  school  where  I  have  to 
hide  my  poverty  all  the  time." 

"Hoity-toity!  hear  the  girl  talk!  Maybe  you  would 
like  to  have  gone  into  a  shop  as  your  sister  Keturah  did. 
Working  from  seven  in  the  morning  till  six  in  the  even- 
ing, and  where  would  your  beauty  be  then,  I  would  like 
to  know?  Come  now  and  kiss  me,  and  ask  my  pardon, 
and  I'll  tell  you  a  secret  that  will  more  than  match  your 
news." 

The  girls  had  seated  themselves  on  a  pile  of  lumber 
down  close  by  the  water.  Abigail  looked  at  Keturah  and 
laughed  and  kissed  her  and  said :  "There ;  as  usual  I  am  a 
naughty  girl ;  I  always  was  and  I  suppose  I  always  will  be. 
I  know  you  are  good ;  you've  worked  for  us  all.  But  I 
do  say  it  is  too  bad.  If  we  had  the  money  that  goes  for 
whisky  and  tobacco  and  opium  we  needn't  live  as  we  do, 
and  you  wouldn't  have  to  work  so  hard." 

"There,  there,"  said  Keturah,  "you  are  off  again,  and 
here  am  I  waiting  to  tell  you  a  secret  about  your  dresses." 

"Oh,  I  never  expect  to  have  any  dresses  except  some 
old  slimpsy  stuff,  made  up  all  out  of  fashion." 

"Stop,  Abigail ;  stop,  till  I  tell  you  my  secret." 

"What  is  your  secret  ?" 

"I  have  your  dresses." 

89 


The  Greater  Love 

"You  have  my  dresses !    What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"I  mean  just  what  I  say.  I  have  your  dresses,  and 
beautiful  dresses  they  are.  No  girl  in  all  your  class  will 
have  such  lovely  gowns  as  you  will  have." 

"Keturah  Bain,  you  are  talking  nonsense.  You  never 
could  get  me  such  dresses  as  Maud  Atkins  and  Florence 
Beekman  wear." 

"Couldn't  I?  We  will  see  about  that.  For  once  you 
shall  outshine  Maud  Atkins  and  throw  Florence  Beekman 
in  the  shade." 

"But  how?  Tell  me  how." 

"Easily,  very  easily,"  said  Keturah.  "You  know 
when  Gran'ther  Skinner  died,  they  sent  a  great  box  of 
things  to  mother,  and  among  the  things  were  some  dresses 
of  Grandma  Skinner." 

"Oh."  said  Abigail,  frowningly ;  "I  am  to  wear  Grand- 
ma Skinner's  worn-out  gowns,  and  so  outshine  Maud 
Atkins  and  Florence  Beekman.  No,  thank  you." 

"Wait,  Missy,  wait  till  I  tell  you.  Among  the  goods 
that  came  was  a  piece  of  cloth  that  never  was  made  up. 
It  is  a  kind  of  cloth  that  you  can't  get  nowadays. 
Grandma  Skinner  carded  it  with  her  own  hands  and  it 
was  woven  on  a  hand-loom.  It  is  all  lamb's  wool,  as  fine 
as  silk.  Grandma  made  it,  I  guess,  for  mother's  wedding 
dress.  But  poor  mother  didn't  have  any  wedding,  and 
this  cloth  was  laid  away  in  the  cedar  chest  and  was  for- 
gotten till  Gran'ther  died,  then  it  was  sent  to  me,  and 
I  thought  I  would  have  it  for  my  wedding,  but  my  wed- 
ding day  is  put  off  till  to-morrow,  and  always  will  be  to- 
morrow. So  I  mean  you  to  have  this  dress  for  your  class- 
day  dress  at  commencement  time,  and  it  will  last  you  a 
long  time  for  a  street  dress." 

"Oh,  you  dear,  how  will  you  have  it  made?" 

90 


Raiment  of  Needlework 

"In  the  latest  fashion ;  with  a  close-fitting  skirt — I'm 
so  glad  hoops  have  gone  out — with  a  jacket  waist  and 
a  silk  vest,  and  it  shall  all  be  lined  with  silk.  There  is 
an  old  silk  dress  of  Grandma's,  that  is  without  a  break, 
and  will  line  the  cloth  from  top  to  bottom." 

"Splendid,  splendid,"  cried  Abigail,  "but  what  about 
the  ball  dress  and  the  graduation  gown?" 

"For  the  ball  you  will  have  a  gown  even  more  beauti- 
ful than  the  class-day  dress.  Did  I  tell  you  the  color  of 
that?" 

"No,  you  didn't;  that  don't  matter;  we  can  have  it 
dyed  any  color  we  choose." 

"We  won't  need  to  have  it  dyed.  It  is  a  pale  blue, 
robin's-egg  blue.  The  very  color  for  you  to  wear  in  the 
daytime.  And  your  evening  dress  is — what  do  you 
think?" 

"I  don't  know.  Some  ball  gown  of  Grandma's,  I 
suppose." 

"Yes,  a  china  silk,  a  beautiful  china  silk,  pink  and 
white  stripes,  made  short  in  the  waist  in  the  style  of  the 
empire.  And  that  style  is  just  coming  in  again,  you 
know.  Oh,  it  is  a  beauty,  I  can  tell  you." 

"And  you  have  kept  all  these  things  all  these  years, 
Keturah?" 

"Yes,  and  I  have  watched  over  them  as  if  they  had 
been  my  babies.  I  have  taken  them  out  and  aired  them, 
and  when  you  and  mother  have  asked  about  them,  I  have 
said,  'Oh,  some  old  things  of  Grandma's  that  I  am  look- 
ing over,'  and  you  have  turned  up  your  nose  and  gone 
away." 

"I  didn't  think  you  were  so  sly,  Keturah." 

"Sly!  sly  is  no  word  for  it.  I'm  a  very  fox  icr 
cunning." 


The  Greater  Love 

"Why  did  you  keep  the  things  so  long?  I  wonder 
you  didn't  have  them  made  up  long  ago." 

"Made  up!  when  there  was  no  one  to  wear  them? 
Rosenthal's  forewoman  would  look  well  in  lamb's  wool 
and  china  silk,  wouldn't  she,  now  ?  No.  I  kept  them  for 
my  wedding  day,  and  when  that  never  came  I  kept  them 
for  my  pretty  sister,  there!"  and  Keturah  pinched  the 
shell-like  ear  of  Abigail. 

"And  you  haven't  had  any  good  of  them  at  all,"  said 
Abigail. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  have,"  said  Keturah,  "they  have  been  my 
dream  dresses.  I've  seen  myself  standing  beside  John 
in  the  china  silk  saying,  'I  take  thee,  John,  to  be  my 
wedded  husband.'  Just  think  of  it,  John  and  I  and  china 
silk,  all  in  the  same  dream.  And  then  the  lamb's  wool 
I've  worn  when  John,  as  a  master-plumber,  took  me  to 
the  Mayor's  reception.  Oh,  I  tell  you,  Abigail,  I  have 
worn  those  dresses  until  I'm  tired  of  them.  You  can 
have  them  now." 

"Thank  you,  Keturah,  but  how  about  the  graduation 
dress?  I  guess  we  can  buy  that,  can't  we?  A  muslin 
will  do ;  it  won't  cost  much." 

"Yes,  we  can  buy  that,  and  John's  mother  will  make 
it  for  us,  and  she  will  make  the  lamb's  wool  and  alter  the 
china  silk." 

"But  how  about  the  money,  Keturah?" 

"What  money?" 

"Why,  the  money  for  shoes  and  gloves  and  a  hat  and 
a  fan,  and  to  pay  for  the  class  pictures  and  the  class  sup- 
per and  the  senior  ball,  and  the  class  stone." 

"And  the  class  what?"  cried  Keturah  in  amazement. 

"The  class  stone,  every  class  puts  a  stone  with  the 
class  year  and  the  class  motto  in  the  wall  of  the  build- 
ing." 

92 


Raiment  of  Needlework 

"And  what  might  you  need  for  all  these  class  doings, 
Miss  Millionaire?" 

"I  don't  know  exactly,  not  more  than  fifty  dollars." 

"Fifty  dollars?  Why,  sakes  alive,  how  in  the  world 
do  you  suppose  I  can  spare  you  fifty  dollars  ?" 

"I  don't  know,  Keturah,  but  if  I  graduate  I'll  have  to 
get  it  some  way.  I  can't  go  with  the  class  unless  I  do  as 
the  rest  do.  I'd  rather  stay  away." 

"Well,"  said  Keturah,  "I've  got  a  little  of  Gran'ther's 
money  in  the  bank  that  can  go  to  help  Grandma's  clothes. 
But,  child,  I'm  glad  you  don't  have  to  graduate  more 
than  once;  if  you  had  to  graduate  twice,  we  would  have 
to  go  to  the  poor-house.  But  come,  dear,  it  is  getting 
late.  We  must  go  home." 


93 


CHAPTER  XIII 

SHINAR  TO  THE  RESCUE 

As  Keturah  and  Abigail  were  walking  down  South 
Street  on  their  way  home,  they  saw  a  lad  running  toward 
them,  at  the  top  of  his  speed,  carrying  a  dog  in  his  arms. 
The  runner  was  followed  by  a  gang  of  boys  who  were 
yelling  at  the  top  of  their  voices  and  stoning  the  fugitive 
with  stones.  After  the  boys  came  a  blue-coated  police- 
man brandishing  his  club  in  the  air.  From  the  doors  of 
the  shops  and  the  houses  the  people  thronged  out  to  see 
what  was  going  on.  The  scene  was  exciting  in  the  last 
degree  and  had  all  the  appearance  of  an  incipient  riot. 
The  two  girls  were  frightened  and  turned  and  ran  up 
James  Street,  but  in  doing  so  they  seemed  to  draw  the 
crowd  after  them.  As  they  heard  the  rush  of  flying  feet 
close  upon  them  they  fled  for  refuge  into  the  door  of 
Maloney's  grocery  store.  Reaching  that  place  of  safety 
they  looked  up  and  saw  the  boy,  with  the  dog,  standing 
before  them.  He  could  not  run  any  further.  He  had 
lost  his  wind. 

When  Keturah  saw  the  boy  she  gave  an  exclamation 
of  surprise  and  dismay  and  cried,  saying :  "Shinar,  what- 
ever is  the  matter?"  And  as  the  mob  of  boys  was  ap- 
proaching, she  took  hold  of  the  lad  and  drew  him  quickly 
into  the  store  and  shut  the  door  after  her.  The  boys, 

95 


The  Greater  Love 

pursued  by  the  policeman,  rushed  up  the  street  and  scat- 
tered, as  only  boys  can. 

When  the  danger  was  over,  Keturah  turned  to  Shinar 
for  an  explanation  of  the  scene  which  she  had  just  wit- 
nessed. He  stood  before  her  hatless  and  coatless.  And 
a  tall,  lithe  lad  he  was,  his  dark  hair  growing  low  down 
his  forehead  and  shading  his  large  brown  eyes  that  were 
dancing  with  merriment.  He  held  the  whimpering  dog 
in  his  arms  as  a  mother  would  hold  her  baby,  quieting 
the  quivering  nerves  of  the  frightened  creature  with 
gentle  caresses.  When  he  had  fairly  caught  his  breath 
and  could  speak  he  proceeded  to  explain.  "You  see  this 
yer  dorg,  Keturah.  Well,  I  tell  yer  he  aint  no  common 
dorg  like  yer  kin  pick  up  on  the  street  anywhere.  He  is 
fine  breed ;  he  is  a  bull  terrier,  and  a  first  cross  at  that. 
I  knowed  his  father,  as  nice  a  eytalian  hound  as  ever  yer 
see,  and  his  mother  was  a  beauty ;  a  full-blooded  English 
bull.  This  yer  dorg  is  worth  money.  He's  ready  to  fight 
any  dorg  of  his  weight  and  whip  him  on  sight.  He's  my 
dorg.  Mike  Cronin  gave  him  to  me,  and  I  had  him  tied 
to  me  chair  and  I  went  into  the  store  to  dry  meself  after 
the  rain,  and  when  I  came  out  the  dorg  was  gone.  I  tell 
yer  I  was  scared  and  I  scooted  right  down  the  street, 
huntin'  fer  him,  fer  when  a  dorg  gets  loose  he  mostly 
runs  fer  water,  and  when  I  got  down  to  South  Street  I 
heard  him  yelpin'  and  I  found  him  under  the  dock  tied 
with  his  string,  and  there  was  Jimmy  Mulchahy  and  a  lot 
o'  fools  a-stonin'  of  him.  They  was  playin'  they  was 
Fenians  and  this  yer  dorg  was  the  English  lion ;  when  I 
see  'em  I  took  a  hand  in  that  there  game  meself.  I  was 
the  English  army  comin'  to  the  help  of  the  lion.  I  gives 
Jimmy  Mulchahy  a  bat  over  the  head  and  knocks  the  other 
fellers  right  and  left  and  cuts  the  string  and  picks  up  the 

96 


Shinar  to  the  Rescue 

puppy  in  me  arms  and  runs  fer  me  life,  and  that's  why 
I'm  here  w'dout  me  hat  and  me  coat." 

Shinar  made  this  speech  of  explanation  in  one  breath, 
as  fast  as  he  could  speak.  When  he  came  to  a  stop, 
Keturah  and  Abigail  burst  out  laughing.  And  Keturah 
said :  "It  is  all  very  well,  Shinar,  for  you  to  rescue  your 
dog  from  those  Irish  boys,  but  don't  you  think  you  are 
getting  to  be  too  big  a  boy  to  run  about  the  streets  fight- 
ing for  a  dog  ?  You  are  nearly  as  old  as  Abigail ;  you  are 
almost  a  man." 

When  Keturah  spoke  of  Abigail  the  boy  looked  at 
the  girl  and  blushed.  He  seemed  suddenly  to  become 
conscious  of  himself,  and  he  said:  "Maybe  I'm  gettin' 
too  big  to  run  the  street  bareheaded.  I've  been  thinkin' 
o'  that  fer  a  long  time ;  but  I  aint  too  big  to  fight  fer  me 
dorg  when  a  lot  o'  brats  is  stonin'  him  wid  stones.  That 
aint  what  dorgs  is  fer,  is  it,  Abigail  ?" 

"No,"  said  Abigail,  "it  certainly  is  not,  and  you  did 
right  to  take  him  away  from  those  horrid  boys.  Let  me 
see  if  he  is  hurt."  And  the  girl  took  the  dog  in  her  arms. 
She  found  one  of  his  legs  badly  bruised,  which  she  and 
Keturah  bound  up  in  vinegar  and  brown  sugar. 

Then  they  made  haste  and  hurried  home,  for  it  was 
nearly  supper-time.  Abigail  still  held  the  dog  in  her 
arms  and  Shinar  walked  beside  her,  casting  fond  looks 
on  the  dog  and  shy  looks  on  the  girl. 


97 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

A  FAMILY  COUNCIL 

WHEN  Keturah  and  Abigail  reached  home  they  found 
their  mother  in  a  fretful  state  of  waiting.  Supper  was 
on  the  table  and  the  two  men  were  seated. 

"Why,  Keturah,  wherever  have  you  been?"  said  the 
mother,  "till  past  supper-time,  keeping  Abigail  out  in  the 
damp." 

"It  isn't  so  very  damp,  mother.  We  were  out  for  a 
walk  and  coming  home  we  met  Shinar,  who  was  running 
away  from  a  parcel  of  boys  that  were  stoning  him  and 
trying  to  get  his  dog  away  from  him." 

"Was  it  that  dog  that  Mike  Cronin  give  him?"  said 
Captain  Bain. 

"Yes,  father,  it  was,"  said  Abigail,  "and  it  is  a  beau- 
tiful dog,  as  dogs  go." 

"That  it  is,"  said  the  Captain ;  "it's  a  bull  terrier.  I 
wonder  at  Mike's  giving  it  to  the  boy.  I  don't  believe 
he'd  a  done  it,  if  he'd  a  known  what  that  dog  is  worth." 

"It  seems  to  me  that  we  are  havin'  a  deal  of  talk  'bout 
Shinar  and  his  dog,"  said  Mrs.  Bain.  "It  isn't  enough 
for  Keturah  to  take  care  o'  Shinar,  but  she's  got  to  look 
after  his  dog  as  well." 

"Yes,  mother,  you  know  the  saying,  'love  me,  love  my 
dog,'  "  said  Keturah,  smiling. 

99 


The  Greater  Love 

"I  guess  you  hadn't  better  be  talkin'  about  lovin', 
Keturah,"  said  Captain  Bain.  "John  mightn't  like  it." 

"Oh,  I'll  take  care  of  John,  father.  I'm  not  afraid 
of  him.  I  couldn't  make  him  jealous  if  I  wanted  to." 

"I  suppose,"  said  Ben,  "if  it  wasn't  for  John  you'd 
marry  Shinar." 

"No,  brother  dear,"  said  Keturah,  sweetly,  "and  for 
the  very  simple  reason  that  Shinar  wouldn't  marry  me. 
I'm  his  mother,  you  know,  and  men  don't  usually  marry 
their  mothers.  If  Shinar  marfies  into  our  family  at  all 
he  will  marry  Abigail.  He  doesn't  have  any  eyes  for  me 
when  Abigail  is  about." 

"I  hope,"  said  the  mother,  "that  you  don't  let  that 
boy  look  at  our  Abigail.  The  impudent  little  wretch !" 

"Come,  come,  mother,"  said  Keturah,  "there  is  no 
harm  done.  If  a  cat  can  look  at  a  king,  surely  a  dog  can 
look  at  a  queen,  and  Shinar  isn't  going  to  hurt  Abigail 
by  casting  sheeps'  eyes  at  her." 

"I  guess  not,"  said  Abigail,  tossing  her  head. 

"Give  Shinar  a  rest,  can't  you?"  said  Captain  Bain. 
"He  is  a  good  lad  and  no  harm  in  him.  But  I  reckon 
we've  had  enough  of  him  for  once.  Let's  change  the 
subject.  Your  mother  tells  me  you're  on  half-time  again, 
Keturah ;  is  it  for  long  ?" 

"I  don't  know,  father,"  answered  Keturah,  "but  I  am 
afraid  it  is.  Mr.  Rosenthal  says  that  the  outlook  is  very 
bad.  He  is  afraid  of  a  panic,  and  so  he  is  not  doing  any- 
thing except  to  fill  orders.  He  says  he  don't  want  to  be 
caught  with  a  big  stock  on  hand  when  the  prices  fall." 

"It's  just  the  same  'longshore,"  said  Captain  Bain; 
"nothin'  doin'  at  all.  Ship  arter  ship  is  goin'  out  o'  port 
with  nothin'  but  ballast  in  her  hold." 

"And  it's  mighty  quiet  up  to  Price's,"  chimed  in  Ben- 

100 


A  Family  Council 

jamin.  "Horses  ain't  doin'  nothin'  'cept  eatin'  their 
heads  off." 

"If  that  is  so,"  said  Keturah,  "you  need  not  stay  about 
there  so  much.  You  certainly  get  nothing  by  it  except 
bad  grammar." 

"You're  mighty  partickerler  'bout  your  grammar,  Ke- 
turah," snarled  Benjamin.  "I  wonder  how  you  stand 
John  leavin'  his  g's  off  and  all  that." 

"Never  mind  John,  Ben,"  said  Captain  Bain;  "his 
tongue  may  be  a  little  awk'rd,  but  he  is  mighty  cute  with 
his  hands." 

"Oh,  dear  me,"  cried  Mother  Bain,  "whatever  will 
we  do  with  Keturah  on  half-time  and  nothin'  doin'  'long- 
shore? Seems  to  me  we'll  be  wantin'  somethin'  beside 
our  g's  pretty  soon." 

"Don't  be  afraid,  mother,"  said  Keturah;  "Abigail 
will  keep  us  from  starving.  She  is  almost  at  the  head  of 
the  class  and  is  sure  to  get  a  school  as  soon  as  she  grad- 
uates. Isn't  she,  father?" 

"I  hope  so,  Keturah,  I  hope  so,  but  her  bein'  at  the 
head  o'  the  class  aint  nothin'  to  do  with  it,"  said  Captain 
Bain. 

"Why  not,  father  ?  Surely  her  high  standing  will  help 
her." 

"Not  a  bit,  not  a  bit,  Keturah,"  said  Captain  Bain; 
"it  aint  standin'  that  does  the  business;  it's  the  pull; 
you've  got  to  be  in  with  the  bosses  or  you  aint  in  with 
the  schools." 

"Why,  father,"  said  Keturah,  with  a  falling  coun- 
tenance, "then  Abigail  hasn't  any  chance  at  all.  She 
has  no  pull,  as  you  call  it." 

"Don't  be  so  sure  o'  that,  Keturah ;  I  guess  Abigail's 
got  a  pull  that'll  land  her  all  right." 

101 


The  Greater  Love 

"What  do  you  mean,  father?"  said  Benjamin.  "Are 
you  goin'  to  work  the  Johnny  Fox  racket  and  scare  the 
boss?" 

•"I  aint  revealin'  secrets  o'  state  to  them  as  sets  up  to 
Price's  livery  and  might  be  tellin'  the  same  to  the  enemy. 
I  am  goin'  now  to  see  one  of  the  bosses.  I'm  sent  fof 
on  important  business." 

Captain  Bain  having  finished  his  supper  rose  up  from 
the  table,  put  on  his  hat  and  coat  and  went  out  to  keep 
his  political  appointment. 


102 


CHAPTER  XV 

A  POLITICAL  PROPOSITION 

CAPTAIN  BAIN  had  been  sent  for.  Michael  Cronin,  the 
ward  boss,  had  told  him  that  Patrick  Flynn,  the  district 
boss,  wanted  to  see  him  and  would  meet  him  in  Cronin's 
saloon  that  evening  at  eight  o'clock.  This  message  rilled 
the  heart  of  Captain  Bain  with  pleasant  anticipations. 
There  must  be  some  good  reason  why  Flynn  wanted  to 
see  him,  for  the  great  man  of  the  district  never  wasted 
his  time  in  useless  interviews.  When  he  wanted  to  see 
a  man  he  always  had  something  for  that  man  to  do,  and 
when  a  man  did  anything  for  Flynn  he  was  sure  of  being 
well  paid  for  it  out  of  the  city  treasury. 

In  one  respect  Captain  Bain  had  not  departed  from 
the  traditions  of  his  fathers ;  he  was  strongly  Democratic 
in  his  convictions  and  affiliations,  and  had  done  more  or 
less  work  for  the  Democratic  party  all  his  life.  It  was 
not,  therefore,  without  reason,  that  the  invitation  to  meet 
the  district  leader  of  his  party,  gave  rise  in  him  to  hopes 
of  political  preferment. 

He  reached  Cronin's  saloon  a  little  before  the  time 
appointed,  as  it  would  never  do  to  keep  the  great  man 
waiting.  When  he  entered  the  barroom  he  saw  that 
Michael  Cronin  was,  himself,  behind  the  bar.  He  was 
polishing  the  mahogany  surface  of  that  bar  with  all  the 
pride  of  one  who  takes  an  interest  in  his  business. 

103 


The  Greater  Love 

Michael  Cronin  had  risen  high  in  the  political  life  of 
his  adopted  city,  but  he  had  never  been  so  foolish  as  to 
look  down  with  contempt  on  the  means  of  his  exaltation. 
His  saloon  was  not  only  the  source  of  his  income,  it  was 
also  the  center  of  his  influence.  Without  that  saloon 
Michael  Cronin  would  never  have  been,  as  he  was,  the 
alderman  of  his  ward.  When  he  saw  Captain  Bain,  he 
gave  him  that  hearty  greeting  which  he  always  gave  to 
his  customers  and  his  followers. 

"How  is  the  Captain  to-night,  I  don'  know.  Wantin' 
a  drink?  Well,  step  along  and  don't  be  bashful.  I'm 
doin'  the  treatin',  and  what  shall  it  be,  Jimacy?  Well, 
there  it  is."  And  Cronin  placed  before  Captain  Bain  his 
favorite  Jamaica  and  a  glass.  The  Captain  was  not  slow 
to  fill  the  one  with  the  other  and  drink  it  sip  by  sip, 
to  get  the  full  fire  of  it  on  the  tongue,  the  palate,  and  the 
throat.  After  he  had  finished  he  wiped  his  mouth  with 
his  hand  and  said : 

"Flynn  wants  to  see  me?" 

"Yis,"  said  Cronin. 

"What  for?"  said  the  Captain. 

"I  don'  know,"  said  the  alderman.  "Paddy  Flynn 
kapes  his  mouth  shut,  and  that's  the  reason  he's  Paddy 
Flynn." 

"Can  I  wait?"    said  Captain  Bain. 

"Shure,"  said  Cronin.  "Jist  take  the  bottle  into  the 
nixt  room,  and  whin  Flynn  comes  I'll  sind  'im  in." 

Following  these  pleasant  directions  Captain  Bain  took 
his  bottle  and  his  glass  and  the  evening  paper,  and  went 
into  the  private  room  to  pass  the  time  of  waiting.  He 
had  been  there  only  a  few  minutes  when  Mr.  Flynn  ar- 
rived. He  was  a  large  man,  dressed  in  black  broadcloth, 
and  wearing  the  silk  hat  which  at  that  time  was  the  uni- 

104 


A  Political  Proposition 

form  worn  by  the  successful  politician.  Flynn  was  a 
prompt  man  and  he  proceeded  at  once  to  business. 

"How  are  you,  Captain?"  he  said.  "I'm  glad  to 
see  you." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Flynn,"  said  the  Captain. 

"How  are  you  gettin'  on  with  the  boys  ?"    said  Flynn. 

"Pretty  well,  Mr.  Flynn,  pretty  well." 

"How  many  votes  can  you  bring  out?" 

"I  guess  a  hundred  or  a  hundred  and  fifty." 

"Good,  good ;  do  it  and  you'll  get  your  share  of  what's 
goin'." 

" What'll  I  get,  Mr.  Flynn  ?  I  ud  like  to  know.  I  find 
it  mostly  promises  before  'lection,  and  put  off  arter- 
ward." 

"Oh,  you  needn't  be  afraid,  Bain ;  if  you  do  your  duty 
we'll  take  care  of  you,"  answered  the  leader. 

"You  have  said  that  before,  Mr.  Flynn,"  said  the 
Captain. 

"Yes,  but  now  I  mean  it.  What  do  you  want,  any- 
how?" 

"Well,  I  ud  like  a  place  as  street  inspector  for  myself 
if  I  could  get  it,  and  then  I've  got  a  daughter  just  comin' 
out  o'  the  Normal  College,  and  I  ud  like  a  place  for  her 
in  the  schools." 

"A  daughter,  eh  ?"  said  Flynn. 

"Yes,"  said  the  Captain. 

"And  that's  what  I  come  to  talk  to  you  about,  Cap- 
tain Bain." 

"About  my  daughter?  How  do  you  know  my 
daughter?" 

"Oh,  I've  had  my  eye  on  her  for  a  long  time,  and  I  tell 
you,  Captain  Bain,  she  can  do  a  sight  better  for  herself 
and  for  you  than  goin'  into  any  school.  A  girl  like  that 

105 


The  Greater  Love 

don't  want  to  go  into  no  school,"  said  Flynn,  dropping 
into  the  double  negative. 

"What  can  she  do  beside  teachin'?  That's  what  she's 
been  studyin'  for,"  said  the  Captain. 

"No,  it  aint,"  said  Mr.  Flynn;  "that  girl  has  been 
studyin'  for  somethin'  a  mighty  sight  better  than  teach- 
in'.  Maybe  you  don't  know  it  Captain  Bain,  but  that 
girl  is  one  of  the  finest  girls  goin'.  She  can  command 
her  own  price,  I  tell  you." 

"Yes,  I  know  our  Abigail  is  a  fine  girl,  but  what's 
that  got  to  do  with  it  ?  What  have  you  got  for  her  to  do, 
anyhow  ?" 

"Well,  Captain,  you  know  it's  just  this  way.  In  these 
days  there's  big  money  goin'  about  for  them  as  aint  too 
squeamish  to  take  it  when  it  comes  their  way.  You  want 
money,  don't  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  Captain,  "I  want  money,  but  I  don't 
see  just  how  I  am  to  get  it.  You  aint  told  me  yet." 

"Your  daughter  can  get  it  for  you,"  said  Flynn. 

"But  how?  What  can  she  do  except  teachin'  to  get 
money?"  said  Captain  Bain,  looking  at  Mr.  Flynn  with 
eyes  growing  heavy  with  drink. 

"She  can  do  lots  of  things,"  said  Flynn,  filling  his 
glass. 

"What  things?"  answered  the  Captain,  vaguely. 

"What  things?"  said  Flynn,  sinking  his  voice  to  a 
confidential  undertone.  "She  can  wear  silk  dresses,  and 
diamonds  and  pearls ;  she  can  drive  behind  four  horses ; 
she  can  eat  terrapin  and  drink  champagne;  she  can  sail 
on  yachts  and  ride  in  private  palace  cars." 

With  shaking  hands,  Captain  Bain  put  down  his  glass 
and  looked  with  alarm  at  the  man  across  the  table,  saying : 
"And  my  girl  would  be  paid  for  doin'  all  that?" 

106 


A  Political  Proposition 

"Surely,"  said  Flynn,  in  a  whisper,  "surely.  I  know 
a  man,  and  he  is  high  up,  I  tell  you,  who'll  give  as  much 
as  ten  thousand  dollars  and  findings  to  have  a  girl  like 
that  for  one  year." 

Captain  Bain  sat  perfectly  silent  and  looked  Mr. 
Flynn  straight  in  the  face.  In  those  days  social  vice 
was  the  handmaid  of  political  corruption.  It  was  a  time 
when  rich  and  powerful  men  drove  their  mistresses  in 
state  through  the  streets  of  the  city,  and  when  there  was 
a  rivalry  among  such  men  as  to  who  should  possess  the 
most  beautiful  woman.  Such  men  as  Flynn,  who  had 
the  city  treasury  at  their  command,  would  pay  any  price, 
if  they  could  only  go  beyond,  in  this  evil  way,  some  other 
man  of  their  own  set.  Such  a  proposition  as  Mr.  Flynn 
made  to  Captain  Bain  was  made  every  day  to  poor  but 
beautiful  women,  and  by  many  of  them  it  was  eagerly 
accepted. 

As  Flynn  leaned  across  the  table,  waiting  for  his 
answer,  he  saw,  to  his  astonishment,  a  wonderful  change 
come  over  the  face  of  Captain  Bain.  The  drunken  flush 
left  his  cheeks  and  they  became  as  pale  as  ashes ;  the  misty 
haze  left  his  eyes  and  they  glowed  like  coals  of  fire ;  his 
hand  ceased  to  tremble  and  he  rose  from  his  chair,  hold- 
ing his  glass  firmly  in  his  grasp.  As  he  looked  down  on 
the  man,  who  had  made  to  him  this  base  proposition,  the 
soul  of  his  Puritan  ancestors  revived  in  him,  and  his  man- 
hood was  aflame  with  shame  and  indignation. 

Patrick  Flynn  quailed  before  him  and  said,  feebly, 
half  rising  from  his  seat:  "Come,  Captain,  don't  be 
squeamish ;  what  do  you  say  ?" 

"What  do  I  say,"  cried  the  Captain.  "I  say  take 
that,  you  dirty  scoundrel!"  and  with  all  his  force  he 
dashed  the  glass  and  the  liquor  full  into  the  face  of  the 
man  who  had  insulted  him. 

107 


The  Greater  Love 

Flynn,  with  his  face  cut  by  the  glass,  and  his  eyes 
blinded  by  the  rum,  sprang  to  his  feet  and  cried  with  a 
curse:  "You  fool,  I'll  send  you  to  prison  for  this  and 
you  can  stay  there  till  you  rot,  and  I'll  have  the  girl  in 
spite  of  you." 

With  the  blood  streaming  down  his  face,  the  mad- 
dened man  rushed  into  the  saloon,  where  the  sight  of  the 
great  leader  in  this  deplorable  condition  caused  the  ut- 
most consternation.  "Call  an  officer,"  he  said,  and  a 
dozen  men  ran  into  the  street  crying  "Murder !"  In  a  few 
moments  a  half-dozen  officers  were  in  the  place.  "Take 
that  man,"  said  Flynn ;  "he  tried  to  murder  me,"  and  he 
pointed  to  Captain  Bain,  standing  in  the  door  between 
the  private  room  and  the  saloon,  all  the  strength  gone  out 
of  him,  the  ashes  from  his  cheeks,  the  fire  from  his  eyes, 
the  firmness  from  his  hand;  after  his  outburst  he  had 
fallen  back  at  once  into  his  normal  condition  of  drunken 
imbecility. 

Without  resistance  or  explanation  he  suffered  himself 
to  be  led  away  to  prison. 


JOS 


CHAPTER  XVI 

HEAVINESS  IN  THE  NIGHT 

KETURAH  was  sitting  in  the  dining-room  after  the 
dishes  had  been  cleared  away,  chatting  with  Abigail  about 
the  coming  Commencement,  when  the  front  door  was 
thrown  open  with  a  bang  and  Shinar  rushed  in,  wild 
with  excitement. 

"Keturah,"  he  cried,  "the  cops  have  got  the  Captain." 

"Shinar,  stop  your  foolishness,"  said  Keturah  calmly. 
She  was  used  to  the  boy's  ways  and  knew  his  tricks. 

"I  tell  ye  it  aint  foolishness,  the  cops  has  got  the  Cap- 
tain and  are  takin'  him  to  the  Tombs,"  said  Shinar. 

"Shinar,  are  you  in  earnest?  Do  you  mean  what  you 
say?"  said  Keturah,  rising  from  her  seat  and  looking 
anxiously  at  the  boy. 

"Yes,  'pon  honor  I  do.  It  aint  no  foolin'  this  time. 
They've  got  him  for  sure." 

"How  did  it  happen?"  said  Keturah  hastily,  prepar- 
ing to  go  out. 

"I  can't  jist  tell  how  it  happened.  I  was  cleaning  a 
feller's  boots  at  me  chair,  when  all  on  a  sudden  there  was 
a  row  in  the  saloon  and  a  crowd  comes  rushin'  out  cryin' 
'Bloody  murder!  Paddy  Flynn  is  kilt,'  and  then  the  cops 
comes  runnin'  from  everywhere  and  in  I  goes  wid  'em, 
and  there  was  Paddy  Flynn,  his  face  all  a-streamin*  wid 

109 


The  Greater  Love 

blood,  and  there  was  the  Captain,  a-standin'  in  the  door 
back  o'  the  saloon,  tremblin'  like  a  whipped  dorg,  and 
Flynn  points  his  finger  at  'im  and  says,  'That's  him;  he 
tried  to  murder  me.'  And  then  the  cops  took  hold  of  the 
Captain  and  'rested  'im  and  run  'im  into  the  Tombs." 

Shinar's  circumstantial  account  convinced  Keturah 
that  his  story  was  true,  and  she  hurried  away  to  the 
Tombs,  wondering  what  had  come  over  her  father.  He 
had  left  home  in  a  state  of  sobriety,,  and  there  had  not 
been  time  for  him  to  become  surly,  much  less  violent,  in 
his  drunkenness  since  then.  He  had  never  gotten  into 
trouble  of  this  kind  before  and  Keturah  wondered,  with 
a  sinking  heart,  whether  this  were  not  a  new  phase  of  his 
dreadful  disease,  and  whether  the  disgrace  of  the  prison 
was  to  be  added  to  the  shame  of  a  drunkard's  life. 

When  Keturah  reached  the  station-house  she  was 
ready  for  the  new  and  terrible  sorrow  which  she  felt  had 
come  to  her.  Entering  the  house,  she  went  to  the  desk 
and  asked  the  officer  in  charge  if  Captain  Bain  was  there. 

"Yes,  he's  here  all  right,"  said  the  officer. 

"What  is  the  charge  against  him  ?"  asked  Keturah. 

"Assault  with  intent  to  kill,"  was  the  answer. 

"May  I  see  him?"  said  Keturah. 

"Who  are  you  ?"  asked  the  officer. 

"I  am  his  daughter." 

"Very  well;  you  can  see  him.  Here,  Jim,  take  the 
girl  down  stairs." 

Keturah  followed  the  attendant  down  the  stone  stair- 
way to  the  cells  beneath.  In  those  days  there  was,  in  con- 
nection with  the  prison  called  the  Tombs,  a  station  for 
the  reception  and  detention  of  persons  charged  with 
crime.  In  the  basement  of  this  station-house  were  the 
cells  where  the  prisoners  were  confined.  As  Keturah 

no 


Heaviness  in  the  Night 

passed  down  the  narrow  corridor,  she  saw  men  and  wo- 
men, standing,  like  wild  beasts,  at  the  barred  doors  of  their 
cages.  Thinking  she  was  an  addition  to  their  number, 
she  was  greeted  with  cries  and  oaths  of  welcome,  and  she 
shrank  away  from  the  coarse  ribaldry  as  the  sensitive 
plant  shrinks  from  the  rude  touch  of  the  human  hand. 
It  seemed  to  her  a  long  time  until  she  came  to  her  father's 
cell,  which  was  at  the  end  of  the  corridor. 

When  she  reached  his  cell  she  saw  him  sitting  on  his 
bed  with  his  head  in  his  hands  and  his  elbows  resting  on 
his  knees.  She  stopped  before  the  door,  but  he  did  not 
look  up ;  he  sat  in  the  same  posture  of  despair.  Keturah 
remained  silent  until  the  attendant  left  her,  and  then  she 
said  softly,  "Father." 

The  old  man  did  not  lift  his  head;  he  either  did  not 
hear,  or  else  he  did  not  want  to  hear.  Keturah  waited 
a  moment,  and  then  called  again  a  little  louder,  "Father, 
father." 

The  old  man  lifted  his  head  from  his  hands  and  gazed 
at  his  daughter  with  a  vacant  stare.  He  did  not  seem  to 
know  her.  "Father,"  she  cried  in  distress,  fearing  his 
mind  was  leaving  him.  "Father,  don't  you  know  me? 
It's  Keturah." 

"What  do  you  want?"  said  the  old  man,  in  a  hoarse 
whisper. 

"Come  here,  father,  come  here,"  pleaded  the  woman. 

Captain  Bain  rose  up  from  his  bed  and  staggered 
slowly  to  the  grating  and  stood  there  trembling.  Keturah 
took  him  by  the  hand,  and  seeing  how  weak  he  was  said  to 
him:  "Sit  down,  father,  sit  down."  The  Captain  sank 
down  onto  the  floor,  a  heap  of  misery,  and  Keturah  sat 
down  in  front  of  him,  still  holding  his  hand  in  hers,  and 
neither  of  them  spoke  a  word. 

in 


The  Greater  Love 

One  by  one  the  prisoners  ceased  from  their  coarse 
jest  and  song  and  oath,  and  fell  off  to  sleep,  and  the 
silence  was  broken  only  by  the  loud  breathing  of  the 
sleepers.  The  minutes  that  seemed  hours  and  the  hours 
that  seemed  ages  slowly  passed  away,  and  Keturah  still  sat 
on  the  stone  floor,  leaning  her  face  against  the  iron  bars, 
holding  her  father's  hand  in  hers.  Once  or  twice  the  at- 
tendant came  and  looked  at  her,  but  seeing  her  grief,  he 
went  away  and  left  her  there. 

When  all  was  still,  Keturah  whispered  softly,  saying : 
"Father." 

"What?"  said  the  Captain,  looking  at  her  with  dazed 
eyes. 

"Tell  me,  father,  what  is  the  matter;  did  you  try  to 
kill  Mr.  Flynn?" 

"Yes,  I  did,"  said  the  Captain. 

"Why,  father,  why  did  you  do  it?" 

"Because  he's  a  dirty  scoundrel,"  said  the  Captain, 
repeating  the  words  he  had  used  to  Flynn. 

"But,  father,  you  wouldn't  want  to  kill  him  for  that. 
What  did  he  do  to  make  you  so  angry?" 

"He  wanted  to  buy  Abigail,"  said  the  Captain,  bring- 
ing his  face  close  to  the  bars  and  whispering  in  Keturah's 
ear. 

"He  wanted  to  do  what?"  cried  Keturah,  starting  as 
if  she  heard  a  snake  hissing. 

"He  wanted  to  buy  Abigail,"  repeated  the  Captain, 
sullenly. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?  Wrhat  did  he  want  to  buy  Abi- 
gail for?"  said  Keturah,  in  amazement. 

"What  does  a  scoundrel  like  that  want  a  woman  for  ?" 
said  the  Captain,  fiercely.  "You  know  as  well  as  I  do." 

"What  did  he  say,  father  ?  What  did  he  say  ?"  asked 
Keturah  breathlessly. 

112 


Heaviness  in  the  Night 

"I  asked,"  replied  her  father,  "if  my  daughter,  who 
was  comin'  out  o'  the  Normal  couldn't  get  a  school.  And 
he  said,  'Your  daughter  can  do  a  fine  sight  better  nor 
that.  I  know  your  daughter.  She's  a  mighty  fine  girl.' 
And  I  said,  'What  can  she  do?'  He  said,  'She  can  ride 
behind  four  horses  whenever  she  wants.  She  can  eat 
terrapin  and  drink  champagne;  she  can  wear  silks  and 
diamonds,  and  can  sail  on  yachts.'  And  I  said,  'And 
she'll  be  paid  for  doin'  that  ?'  and  he  said,  'Yes ;  I  know 
a  man  as  ud  give  ten  thousand  dollars  and  findin's  to  have 
a  girl  like  that  for  a  year.'  " 

"Oh,  God,"  cried  Keturah,  "and  what  did  you  do 
then?" 

"Then  I  stood  up,  and  when  he  said,  'Well,  what  do 
you  say,  don't  be  squeamish,  Bain  ?'  "  I  said,  'Say !  I  say 
take  that,'  and  I  threw  my  glass  of  rum  and  broke  it  on 
his  nose,  and  the  rum  went  into  his  eyes." 

"You  did  right,  father,"  cried  Keturah,  "you  did 
right." 

"Yes,  I  did  right  for  once  in  my  life,  and  because  I 
did  right  I'm  here  behind  the  bars  and  am  like  to  go  to 
prison  for  ten  years." 

"Oh,  father,"  exclaimed  Keturah,  "not  so  bad  as  that, 
not  so  bad  as  that !" 

"Yes,  bad  as  that  and  worse.  You  don't  know  what 
I  done,  Keturah,  you  don't  know  what  I  done.  I  hit  the 
deestrict  leader;  that  aint  assault;  that's  treason,  and  he 
said  he  ud  send  me  to  jail  and  ke«p  me  there  till  I  rot, 
and  he  can  do  it,  Keturah,  he  can  do  it,"  said  Captain 
Bain,  in  despair.  "And  what's  worse,  he  said  he  ud  have 
the  girl  in  spite  o'  me." 

"Oh,  God  help  us,"  cried  Keturah,  "whatever  will 
we  do?" 


The  Greater  Love 

"What  are  you  saying?"  said  Captain  Bain  crossly. 
"God  help  us  ?  If  there's  any  God  he  is  on  the  other  side 
always,  always  will  be:  he's  helping  Paddy  Flynn,  not 
me." 

"Oh,  father,  please  don't,"  cried  Keturah,  "don't  speak 
that  way  now."  Keturah  had  no  more  belief  than  her 
father  in  the  goodness  of  God,  but  her  woman's  soul 
shrank  from  the  blasphemy  of  speech. 

"Speak,  I  guess  I  will  speak,"  cried  Captain  Bain,  in  a 
rage.  "God's  been  agin5  me  all  my  life.  I  was  whipped  in 
God's  name  when  I  wasn't  more  than  three  years  old.  I 
was  horsewhipped  for  laughin'  when  I  was  a  boy,  and 
beaten  for  kissin'  the  girls  when  I  was  a  young  fellow, 
and  it  was  God,  God,  God,  all  the  day  long,  till  I  come  to 
hate  God  sittin'  up  there  in  heaven,  and  havin'  us  poor 
babies  whipped  down  here  on  the  earth." 

"Please,  father,  don't,  don't !'''  sobbed  Keturah. 

"Yes,  I  will,"  said  the  Captain,  "I'll  say  for  once  what 
I  think.  What's  God  doin'  for  us  now?  Nothin'  at  all. 
He  is  too  busy  helpin'  them  Suydams ;  them  big  bugs  that 
goes  to  Saint  Nicholas  Church.  Suydam  a-preachin' 
there,  and  his  wife  and  her  children  ridin'  down  to  hear 
him  in  their  kerridge.  God's  helpin'  them  to  grind  us 
down  to  the  last  cent ;  raisin'  the  rent  on  us  till  they  get 
twenty  per  cent.  They  are  God's  people,  I  tell  you.  He's 
helpin'  them  every  time.  Don't  you  let  me  ever  hear  you 
say,  'God  help  us'  again.  You  just  get  out  o'  God's  way 
and  help  yourself  if  you  can." 

Keturah  made  no  answer  to  this  outbreak  of  her 
father.  She  only  cowered  lower  down  on  the  cold  stone 
floor  and  stifled  the  sobs  that  welled  up  from  her  break- 
ing heart.  The  foul  air  choked  her,  and  the  damp 
chilled  her  to  the  bone.  As  she  lay  there  without  faith  or 

114 


Heaviness  in  the  Night 

hope,  she  would  have  died  had  it  not  been  for  the  great 
love  that  was  in  her  heart.  "What  shall  we  do  to  save 
Abigail  ?"  she  sobbed  out  at  last. 

"Do?"  said  the  Captain.  "You  must  get  her  out  o' 
this  town  as  quick  as  you  can." 

"But  where  can  I  send  her,  father?"  said  Keturah,  in 
despair. 

"She'll  have  to  go  to  Falmouth  to  her  Aunt  Mary's," 
said  the  Captain. 

"Then  she'll  never  have  a  school  in  the  city?"  said 
Keturah,  wistfully. 

"Never,"  said  the  Captain.  "The  blow  I  gave  Paddy 
Flynn  in  the  face  settled  that  forever.  Now,  Keturah, 
you  must  promise  me  to  send  Abigail  away  just  as  soon 
as  you  can.  Paddy  Flynn  aint  the  man  to  be  balked." 

"Yes,  I  promise,  father,"  said  Keturah.  "And  father, 
wont  you  promise  me  something?  Wont  you,  father 
dear?" 

"Yes,  I'll  promise,  Keturah,  whatever  you  want." 

"Father,  wont  you  promise  that  if  you  ever  get  out  of 
this  you  will  never  go  into  Cronin's  saloon  again?" 

"Promise,"  cried  Captain  Bain,  springing  to  his  feet. 
"Promise:  I  swear  it.  Hear  me  swear,  Keturah,  hear 
me  swear.  Never  will  I  let  one  drop  o'  Cronin's  whisky 
go  down  my  throat  as  long  as  I  live.  So  help  me  God." 

Keturah  smiled  pitifully  at  her  father's  oath.  For 
the  moment  he  seemed  to  have  forgotten  that  God  could 
not  or  would  not  help  him.  Keturah  was  too  wise  to  call 
attention  to  this  inconsistency.  She  only  said:  "Oh, 
father,  if  you  would  only  promise  me  never  to  drink  any 
whisky  at  all,  any  more,  I'd  be  so  happy." 

"5 


The  Greater  Love 

Captain  Bain  let  his  hand  fall  and  said :  "I'll  promise 
all  a  man  can,  Keturah,  I'll  promise  all  a  man  can,  and  I 
can't  do  more." 

And  Keturah  had  to  be  content  with  that. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

JOY  IN  THE  MORNING 

IN  the  morning,  when  Captain  Bain  was  arraigned 
before  the  police  magistrate,  a  great  and  joyful  surprise 
awaited  him.  When  his  name  was  called,  and  he  stood 
before  the  judge,  that  magistrate  was  holding  a  paper  in 
his  hand  which  he  was  reading  with  evident  displeasure. 
He  hemmed  and  he  hawed,  and  he  pished  and  he  pshawed 
and  looked  at  Captain  Bain  and  the  paper,  and  frowned, 
and  said  at  last :  "Are  you  the  man  what  hit  Mr.  Flynn  ?" 

"I  am,"  said  Captain  Bain. 

"Well,  you're  a  lucky  man." 

"Am  I?"  said  Captain  Bain. 

"And  Mr.  Flynn  is  a  noble  gentleman,"  said  the  judge. 

"Is  he?"  said  Captain  Bain. 

"Yes,  he  is,"  said  the  judge,  "and  you  ought  to  go 
down  to  him  on  yer  knees  all  the  rest  of  the  days  of  yer 
life." 

"Ought  I?"  said  the  Captain. 

"Yes,  you  ought,"  said  the  judge.  "Here  is  Mr.  Flynn 
givin'  you  a  free  pardon  for  all  you  done." 

"Has  he?"  said  Captain  Bain. 

"Yes,  he  has,"  said  the  judge.  "Here's  a  letter  come 
from  him  this  morning  sayin',  'Let  that  man  go:  he 
didn't  know  what  he  was  doin.'  He  was  drunk.'  Now, 

117 


The  Greater  Love 

that's  what  I  call  a  noble  gentleman.  Mr.  Flynn  has  a 
fellow  feelin'  and  can  make  allowance  for  a  man  when 
he's  drunk.  You  was  drunk,  wasn't  you?" 

"Was  I?"  said  Captain  Bain. 

"Yes,  you  was,"  said  the  judge,  "if  'Mr.  Flynn  said 
you  was  drunk,  you  was  drunk.  Wasn't  he  drunk, 
officer?" 

"Yis,  yer  honor,"  said  the  officer. 

"Well,"  said  the  judge,  "Mr.  Flynn  said  let  that  man 
go  and  ask  him  no  questions,  and  I'm  goin'  to  do  what 
Mr.  Flynn  says.  But  even  Mr.  Flynn  can't  keep  me  from 
doin'  me  duty  by  the  law.  Mr.  Clerk,  the  charge  against 
this  man  of  assault  with  intent  to  kill  is  withdrawn. 
Enter  the  charge  of  drunk  and  disorderly.  You  was 
drunk  and  disorderly,  wasn't  you  ?" 

"Was  I  ?"  said  the  Captain. 

"Yes,  you  was  and  don't  you  deny  it.  Officer,  take  the 
oath." 

The  officer  was  sworn.  "This  man  was  drunk  and 
disorderly,  wasn't  he?" 

"Yis,  yer  honor." 

"Well,  then,  it's  ten  dollars  or  twenty  days,  and  you 
may  thank  your  stars  it  aint  twenty  years.  Hittin'  Paddy 
Flynn  is  most  as  bad  as  hittin'  the  Queen  of  England. 
Officer,  take  him  away." 

And  the  Captain  was  led  back  to  his  cell. 

Keturah,  who  had  staid  with  her  father  all  night,  and 
gone  with  him  into  the  court,  could  hardly  believe  her 
ears.  The  awful  terror  of  the  night  passed  away  like  a 
dream.  She  asked  the  judge  if  she  might  pay  her  father's 
fine  and  take  him  home.  And  when  told  that  she  could, 
she  fairly  flew  home  and  got  her  bank  book  and  hurried 
to  the  bank  and  drew  out  the  money  from  the  little  balance 

118 


Joy  in  the  Morning 

that  was  there,  and  ran  back  to  the  Tombs  and  paid  her 
father's  fine,  and  securing  his  discharge,  she  took  him  by 
the  hand  and  he  and  she  went  home  together,  wondering 
at  their  marvelous  escape.  Like  all  wonderful  things 
that  happen  in  this  world,  their  good  fortune  had  a  very 
simple  and  natural  explanation. 

Patrick  Flyhn  was  frightened. 

Midnight  meditations  and  morning  counsels  had  con- 
vinced him  of  the  unwisdom  of  the  course  of  action  which 
he  had  taken.  He  lay  all  night  thinking  the  matter  over 
and  considering  what  he  had  better  do.  In  the  saloon 
he  was  taken  by  surprise.  To  his  utter  astonishment,  his 
liberal  offer  had  been  refused  with  scorn.  For  some  un- 
accountable reason  a  poor  man  had  been  squeamish  and 
had  refused  to  take  big  money  when  it  came  his  way. 
Why  he  should  do  this  Flynn  did  not  understand.  To  him 
money  was  money,  no  matter  how  it  was  come  by. 

But,  though  Mr.  Flynn  was  perplexed,  he  did  not  lose 
his  head.  He  saw  at  once  that  it  would  never  do  for  him 
to  prosecute  Captain  Bain.  If  the  story  were  told  just  as 
it  happened  it  would  ruin  Mr.  Flynn  in  the  district,  and 
his  political  career  would  be  ended.  The  leader  saw  that 
he  had  made  a  mistake,  and  he  cast  in  his  mind  how  he 
could  best  remedy  it,  and,  perhaps,  make  a  gain  of  his 
ungodliness. 

As  he  lay  with  his  eyes  and  nose  bandaged,  early  in 
the  morning,  pondering  his  unpleasant  situation,  he  was 
helped  to  a  right  conclusion  by  the  great  leader  of  his 
party.  This  man  was  an  early  riser  and  had  read  in  the 
morning  paper  of  the  attack  on  Flynn.  Anxious  to  know 
the  cause  of  this  misfortune,  he  had  called  a  carriage  and 
was  driven  to  Flynn's  house.  He  was  at  once  shown  to 
the  sick  man's  room.  At  the  first  sight  of  him  the  leader 
had  to  laugh  in  spite  of  himself. 

119 


The  Greater  Love 

"Flynn,"  he  said,  as  soon  as  he  could  control  his 
laughter,  "what  in  the  world  is  the  matter?  What  has 
happened  to  you?" 

"A  blamed  fool  hit  me  in  the  face  with  a  whisky 
glass." 

"What  did  he  do  that  for?"  said  the  leader. 

'"Cause  I  made  him  mad,  I  'spose." 

"How  did  you  make  him  mad  ?  Come,  speak  up,  let's 
have  the  truth." 

"Well,  I  made  him  a  proposition  and  he  did  not 
like  it." 

"What  was  the  proposition?" 

"Well,  it  was  this  way.  The  man  had  a  girl — a 
mighty  fine  girl,  and  I  wanted  the  girl  to  take  'round  to 
the  Tiger  Club.  I  wanted  to  take  the  brag  out  of  Jim 
Flash,  who  is  showing  off  that  Markham  girl  of  his,  as  if 
she  was  the  only  girl  in  the  world.  So  I  said  to  this 
fellow  that  this  girl  could  get  big  money  if  she  wanted  it. 
I  went  so  far  as  to  offer  her  ten  thousand  dollars  and 
findin's  for  one  year.  And  with  that  the  fool  threw  his 
glass,  whisky  and  all,  right  into  my  face." 

"And  served  you  right,"  said  the  leader.  "I  wish 
he  had  killed  you.  You  and  Jim  Flash  and  your  set  are 
goin'  to  ruin  our  whole  game.  If  you  want  to  be  nasty, 
why  can't  you  be  nasty  among  yourselves,  and  not  flaunt 
your  foulness  before  the  whole  city?  I  tell  you,  I'll  have 
no  more  of  it.  It's  too  dangerous,  you've  got  to  stop  it 
right  away.  You  don't  know  these  people.  You  can 
steal  their  money  and  they  wont  say  a  word.  The  poor 
wont  grumble,  because  it  aint  their  money  we  are  stealing, 
and  the  rich  don't  make  a  fuss  because  they  can  make 
money  faster  than  we  can  steal  it.  But  just  let  them 
think  you  are  playin'  false  with  their  women  and  they'll 

120 


Joy  in  the  Morning 

sweep  you  into  hell  quicker  than  they'd  sweep  garbage 
into  the  street." 

"What  shall  I  do?"  said  Flynn,  sharing  his  leader's 
alarm. 

"Do?"  said  the  master.  "Why,  send  word  at  once  to 
the  judge  to  let  the  man  go  and  then  stop  his  mouth  with 
the  best  thing  you  can  give  him.  What  does  he  want?" 

"He  said,"  answered  Flynn,  "that  he'ud  like  a  place 
on  the  street  for  himself  and  he'ud  like  his  girl  to  get  into 
the  schools.  I  will  say  for  Bain  that  he's  a  good  fellow, 
works  hard  for  the  party,  votes  a  hundred  or  a  hundred 
and  fifty  at  every  election." 

"And  that's  the  kind  of  man  you  insulted !  Let  me  tell 
you,  Mr.  Flynn,  two  or  three  more  mistakes  like  this  and 
Mike  Cronin  will  get  his  promotion.  We  can't  have 
district  leaders  throwin'  away  a  hundred  or  a  hundred  and 
fifty  votes,  I  tell  you.  Make  the  man  a  court  messenger, 
and  tell  him  his  girl  shall  have  the  best  place  in  the  schools 
we  can  find  for  her  as  soon  as  she  is  ready." 

"I'll  do  it,  sir,  I'll  do  it,"  said  Patrick  Flynn  eagerly. 

"See  you  do,"  said  the  leader,  as  he  went  away. 

As  a  consequence  of  this  conference  Captain  Bain 
received  on  the  afternoon  of  the  same  day  a  letter  which 
read  as  follows : 

My  dear  Captain  Bain : 

I  regret  exceedingly  the  unfortunate  occurrence  of 
last  night.  I  am  afraid  you  did  not  quite  understand  my 
proposition,  and  were  a  little  hasty  in  your  action.  But 
we  will  let  bygones  be  bygones,  and  will  put  aside  all  ill 
will  for  the  sake  of  the  party.  These  are  not  times  for  the 
friends -of  the  party  to  fall  out  with  one  another.  In  con- 
sulting with  those  high  in  authority,  I  find  it  to  be  the 

121 


The  Greater  Love 

general  opinion  that  your  services  to  the  cause  are  deserv- 
ing of  reward.  You  were  speaking  about  the  position  of 
street  inspector ;  but  we  feel  that  such  employment  is  not 
fitted  for  a  man  of  your  age.  You  would  be  exposed  to 
the  weather  in  all  times  and  seasons,  and  that  you  ought 
to  avoid. 

I  take  pleasure  in  saying  that  we  can  offer  you  a  posi- 
tion more  suitable  to  your  condition  and  deserts.  If  you 
will  take  the  inclosed  card  to  the  Supreme  Court  Cham- 
bers, No.  3,  and  ask  for  Judge  Hanson,  he  will  appoint 
you  to  the  office  of  court  messenger,  which  I  am  sure 
will  be  entirely  satisfactory. 

It  gives  me  further  pleasure  to  say  that  your  daughter, 
for  whom  I  have  profound  respect,  will  be  provided  for  in 
the  schools  as  soon  as  she  is  ready  to  teach. 

Hoping  you  will  do  as  well  by  the  party  in  the  future 
as  in  the  past,  I  remain, 

Yours  very  truly, 

PATRICK  FLYNN. 

This  letter  was  composed  by  Mr.  Flynn's  private 
secretary  and  was  signed  by  the  full,  bold  signature  of  the 
great  man  himself.  It  was  delivered  to  Captain  Bain  on 
the  day  after  his  discharge  from  the  Tombs.  He  read  it 
with  great  satisfaction.  He  was  keen  enough  to  see  the 
advantage  of  his  position  and  he  was  determined  to  use 
his  power  to  the  utmost.  He  had  Flynn  at  his  mercy, 
and  he  meant  to  keep  him  there. 

When  he  showed  the  letter  to  Keturah  she  was  more 
frightened  than  ever  before,  and  she  said  to  her  father : 

"I  hope,  father  dear,  you  will  not  think  of  accepting 
any  favor  from  this  man.  You  ought  not  to  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  him." 

122 


Joy  in  the  Morning 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,  Keturah.  I've  got  Flynn  now 
where  I  want  him.  I'll  take  his  job  all  right  enough." 

"But  don't  you  see,  father,"  said  Keturah,  "that  he  is 
trying  to  buy  you,  just  as  he  did  before,  only  in  a  different 
way?" 

"Yes,  I  know  he's  buyin'.  Paddy  aint  the  man  to  give 
nothin'  for  nothin' ;  but  it's  different  now,  he's  biddin'  fer 
somethin'  that  I've  got  for  sale." 

"What  is  that,  father?"  asked  Keturah,  anxiously. 

"Silence,"  said  the  Captain. 

"But,  father,  wont  he  try  to  do  what  he  said  he  would 
do,  and  try  to  get  hold  of  sister  in  spite  of  you  ?" 

"No,  Keturah,  Abigail  is  safe  now  so  far  as  Flynn  is 
concerned.  He  knows  them  goods  aint  for  sale,  and  he'll 
look  elsewhere.  He  can  find  plenty  to  take  his  bid." 

By  this  answer  Captain  Bain  showed  that  he  had  not 
breathed  the  political  atmosphere  for  nothing.  He  was 
right  in  thinking  that  Patrick  Flynn  would  not  risk  his 
political  influence  for  any  woman,  however  beautiful. 
There  were  thousands  of  women  to  be  had  every  day,  but 
there  was  only  one  district  leadership.  Captain  Bain 
had  every  reason  to  think  that  all  dangers  from  that 
quarter  had  passed  away.  Flynn  might  bear  him  a  grudge 
and  might  turn  him  down  when  he  had  the  chance,  but  he 
would  never  allude  to  that  other  subject  again.  So  with- 
out compunction  or  fear  Captain  Bain  presented  himself 
at  the  Court  House,  and  was  duly  installed  as  court  mes- 
senger. 

Keturah  did  not  share  in  her  father's  confidence.  She 
was  afraid  that  some  scheme  was  brewing  that  would  in- 
volve her  in  some  new  and  great  misfortune.  Apart  en- 
tirely from  what  had  happened,  she  knew  that  Abigail 
was  in  great  danger.  In  the  life  that  they  lived  there  were 

123 


The  Greater  Love 

no  moral  safeguards,  such  as  hedge  about  the  girl  that 
grows  up  in  a  quiet  and  secluded  home.  To  live  a  moral 
life  in  the  midst  of  immoral  surroundings  demands  great 
strength  of  character,  and  Keturah  was  beginning  to  see 
to  her  dismay  that  Abigail  was  not  strong  morally.  Her 
education  had  trained  her  intellect  and  her  taste,  but  not 
her  conscience  and  her  will. 

Poor  Keturah  had  no  one  to  turn  to  for  counsel.  She 
thought  of  that  long  night  on  the  prison  floor  when  she 
said,  "God  help  me !"  And  she  began  to  wonder  if  after 
all  there  might  not  be  a  God  who  could  and  would  help 
her,  and  was  not,  as  her  father  had  said,  on  the  other 
side — on  the  side  of  the  wicked  against  the  innocent,  on 
the  side  of  the  strong  against  the  weak. 


124 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

A  BUSINESS  REQUIREMENT 

KETURAH  was  so  busy  the  day  after  her  father's  arrest, 
in  paying  his  fine  and  securing  his  release  from  jail  that 
she  did  not  go  to  the  shop.  The  next  day  found  her  in 
her  usual  place,  but  not  in  her  usual  spirits.  She  was  in 
that  state  of  collapse  which  follows  all  violent  emotion. 
The  lines  were  deeper  in  her  brow  and  the  color  was 
darker  under  her  eyes.  As  she  stood  at  the  head  of  the 
workroom  in  her  long  white  apron,  she  had  the  lassitude 
which  was  the  natural  result  of  her  previous  excitement. 
She  appeared  to  be  that  morning  what  she  really  was,  a 
careworn,  hopeless  woman. 

As  she  looked  down  the  long  workroom  at  the  fifty 
girls  sitting  at  the  benches,  she  had  what  was  next  to 
hatred  in  her  heart  for  the  conditions  of  life  that  com- 
pelled them  to  work  as  they  did,  and  for  what  they  did. 
She  knew  better  than  they  did  themselves  what  they  were 
doing.  They  were  sacrificing  all  the  hopes  and  joys  of 
womanhood  for  the  sake  of  a  little  bread  to  eat  and  cloth- 
ing to  put  on.  As  Keturah  stood  watching  them  she 
knew  that  many  of  them  were  already  lost  to  virtue,  and 
that  one  of  them  would  have  to  be  sent  that  very  day 
from  the  little  shelter  which  the  shop  gave  her  and  be  ex- 
posed without  protection  to  the  powers 'of  evil  that  were 

125 


The  Greater  Love 

raging  in  the  city.  "And  yet,"  said  Keturah,  bitterly, 
"men  say  there  is  a  God." 

As  the  woman  was  chewing  the  cud  of  this  hard  say- 
ing, word  came  that  Mr.  Rosenthal  wanted  to  see  her  in 
the  office,  and  she  went  to  him  at  once. 

"You  were  not  here  yesterday,  Keturah?"  said  her 
employer. 

"No,  sir,"  answered  Keturah. 

"What  was  the  matter  ?"  said  he. 

"My  father  was  in  trouble,  and  I  had  to  stay  at  home 
to  help  him." 

"I  am  very  sorry  to  find  fault  with  you,  Keturah,  but 
you  must  understand  that  I  employ  you,  not  your  father, 
and  I  can't  have  you  staying  away  from  your  duties  at  the 
shop  to  help  your  father." 

"I  don't  do  it  very  often,  sir,"  answered  the  woman, 
meekly. 

"I  know  that,  but  you  should  not  do  it  at  all.  In  busi- 
ness, business  comes  first  every  time,  and  when  you  can't 
attend  to  your  business,  you'll  have  to  give  it  up,  and  I 
will  get  some  one  who  will  attend  to  it." 

"I'm  very  sorry,  Mr.  Rosenthal.  I  will  not  do  it 
again,"  said  Keturah,  with  trembling  lips. 

"See  that  you  don't,"  said  her  employer,  crossly,  "and 
look  after  your  room  more  carefully.  Things  are  not 
going  on  there  as  well  as  they  might.  The  girls  have 
been  spoiling  a  great  deal  of  work  lately." 

"I  know  that,  Mr.  Rosenthal,  and  I  do  my  best  to 
prevent  it ;  but  you  know  this  time  of  year  is  a  hard  time 
for  the  girls." 

"What  has  the  time  of  year  to  do  with  it?"  said  Mr. 
Rosenthal. 

"A  great  deal,"  answered  Keturah.     "The  girls  are 

126 


A  Business  Requirement 

always  more  difficult  to  manage  in  the  spring  than  at  any 
other  season  of  the  year." 

"Keturah,"  said  her  employer,  looking  at  her  over  his 
glasses,  "you  talk  like  a  fool."  Courtesy  toward  women 
had  no  place  in  business.  Keturah  was  used  to  being 
spoken  to  in  that  way  and  did  not  resent  it.  She  only 
said:  "Maybe  I  do,  Mr.  Rosenthal,  but  I  know  that  I 
have  a  great  deal  more  trouble  with  the  girls  now  than  I 
do  in  the  fall  and  the  winter." 

"And  what  is  the  reason  ?"  said  the  man. 

"Spring  fever,  I  guess,"  answered  the  woman.  "The 
birds  are  singing,  the  trees  are  in  blossom,  and  the  sun 
is  shining,  and  the  girls  feel  it.  They  want  to  be  out  of 
doors  playing,  and  they  can't,  and  that  makes  them  un- 
easy, and  they  get  nervous  and  restless." 

Mr.  Rosenthal  laughed  and  said :  "I  guess  they  play 
all  right  in  my  trimming  room,  and  that  is  about  all  they 
do.  Look  at  that  stack  of  work  over  there,  ruined  in  the 
trimming.  I  wish  I  could  put  men  in  the  trimming  room. 
Girls  are  such  a  bother." 

"Yes,"  said  Keturah,  "it  is  no  wonder  that  the  men 
are  the  better  workers.  It  is  easier  to  be  a  working  man 
than  it  is  to  be  a  working  woman." 

"How  is  it  easier?"  said  Rosenthal. 

"Because,"  said  Keturah,  "the  working  man  has  noth- 
ing but  his  work  to  do.  When  he  is  through,  he  is 
through.  When  he  goes  home  he  finds  his  supper  ready 
for  him.  Every  working  man  has  a  woman  to  take  care 
of  him.  After  his  supper  he  can  take  his  pipe  and  go  out 
to  his  saloon  and  have  a  little  rest  and  recreation.  But 
how  is  it  with  a  working  woman  ?  When  she  gets  up  in 
the  morning  she  has  to  get  her  own  breakfast,  or  else 
come  away  without  it.  If  she  has  a  home  to  go  to  after  her 

127 


The  Greater  Love 

work  is  done,  she  has  to  help  her  mother  get  supper  and 
clear  away  the  dishes,  and  like  as  not,  there  are  half  a 
dozen  children  to  take  care"  of  till  bedtime.  And  then 
she  has  no  place  to  go  except  the  streets,  and  you  know  a 
girl  who  runs  our  streets  does  worse.  And  yet  men 
wonder  that  girls  get  nervous  and  can't  do  as  good  work 
as  they  can." 

"What  you  say  may  be  true,  Keturah,"  said  Mr. 
Rosenthal,  lazily  knocking  the  ashes  from  his  cigar,  "but 
it  is  all  sentiment ;  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  business.  We 
pay  our  girls  to  do  our  work,  and  we  expect  them  to  do  it. 
But  there  is  no  use  in  talking  any  more.  I  wanted  to  tell 
you  that  we'll  have  to  make  another  cut  of  ten  per  cent, 
in  wages." 

"Another  cut  of  ten  per  cent. !"  exclaimed  Keturah  in 
dismay.  "Wrhy,  Mr.  Rosenthal,  it  is  impossible ;  the  girls 
are  not  getting  enough  to  live  on  now.  If  you  take  any 
more  away  from  them  they  will  starve." 

"I  can't  help  it,"  said  the  employer,  "business  does  not 
warrant  us  paying  present  wages,  and  we  will  have  to  cut 
down  or  shut  up.  The  lookout  for  business  is  worse  than 
it  has  been  for  years.  As  far  as  I  can  see,  it  would  pay 
one  to  shut  down  the  shop,  and  go  to  Europe  and  live  there 
until  the  hard  times  are  over.  You  can  tell  the  girls  they 
can  take  the  cut,  or  else  they  can  leave  the  shop,  and  1 
don't  care  much  which  they  do." 

"Very  well,  sir,"  said  Keturah,  faintly. 

"I  wish  you  would  send  away  that  girl,  Anna  Rice, 
she  spoils  more  work  than  she  is  worth.  It  would  pay  me 
to  pay  her  to  stay  at  home,"  said  Mr.  Rosenthal. 

"Poor  Anna!"  said  Keturah,  "her  mother  has  had 
twins,  and  she  has  had  to  be  up  with  them  every  night  for 
a  month.  The  poor  girl  is  all  worn  out." 

128 


A  Business  Requirement 

"I  have  nothing  to  do  with  her  mother's  babies.  Let 
the  girl  stay  home  and  take  care  of  them.  Send  her  away. 
And  what  is  the  matter  with  that  girl,  Carrie  Twine  ?  She 
don't  look  right  to  me." 

"She  is  not  right,  Mr.  Rosenthal.  Carrie  Twine  is  in 
that  condition  into  which  every  girl  falls  when  Jim  Car- 
don  takes  a  fancy  to  her." 

"Well,  send  her  away.  A  girl  that  can't  take  care  of 
herself  has  no  business  in  the  shop." 

"I  will  send  her  away,  Mr.  Rosenthal,  but  that  will 
simply  mean  the  ruin  of  another  girl.  Cardon  will  choose 
another  as  soon  as  she  is  gone." 

"I  can't  help  that,  Keturah.  You  ought  to  take  better 
care  of  the  girls.  Tell  them  what's  what.  If  they  want 
to  make  fools  of  themselves  with  Jim  Cardon  that  is  their 
lookout,"  and  with  this  Mr.  Rosenthal  turned  to  his  desk, 
and  Keturah  left  the  office.  As  she  walked  back  to  her 
room,  she  said  under  her  breath,  "And  yet  men  say  there 
is  a  God." 

When  the  noon  hour  came,  Keturah  called  her  girls 
about  her,  and  announced  the  cut  of  ten  per  cent.  This 
was  received,  as  she  expected,  with  an  outcry  of  dismay 
and  indignation.  "Why,  what  does  Rosenthal  mean — cut 
us  ten  per  cent,  and  put  us  on  half-time  ?"  cried  one  of  the 
girls.  "How  does  he  think  we're  goin'  to  live?" 

"I  don't  think  Mr.  Rosenthal  thinks  anything  about 
that,"  said  Keturah.  "It  is  his  business  to  make  hats  and 
not  to  make  girls  live." 

"Well,  we  wont  work  for  him,"  cried  the  girls  in 
chorus.  "We'll  strike." 

"Strike,"  said  Keturah,  pityingly,  "why,  Mr.  Rosenthal 
could  hire  a  hundred  girls  to-morrow  to  do  your  work  at 
his  own  terms.  He  says  the  times  are  going  to  be  very 

129 


The  Greater  Love 

hard,  and  he  is  right.  It  wont  be  long,  I  tell  you,  before 
working  people  will  be  glad  to  work  on  any  terms.  I  tell 
you,  girls,  you  had  better  hold  on  to  what  you  have.  It 
is  better  than  nothing.  But  you  must  do  as  you  please. 
Those  of  you  who  will  accept  the  cut  can  come  Monday 
morning;  those  who  wont  can  stay  away." 

With  a  great  deal  of  grumbling,  the  girls  put  on  their 
hats  and  coats  and  left  the  shop,  all  except  Anna  Rice  and 
Carrie  Twine  who  were  requested  to  wait  after  the  others 
had  gone. 

As  soon  as  she  was  alone  Keturah  called  Anna  Rice  to 
her  desk  and  said :  "Anna,  I'm  sorry,  but  Mr.  Rosenthal 
says  I  am  not  to  keep  you  any  longer ;  you  spoil  too  much 
work." 

"Oh,  Keturah,"  said  Anna,  turning  white  and  faint, 
"whatever  will  I  do,  and  mother  and  the  babies  wantin' 
every  cent  I  make,  and  more,  too?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  will  do,"  answered  Keturah, 
sadly,  "unless  you  go  to  the  charities  for  help." 

"Oh,  I  never  could  be  a  charity,  never.  I'd  die  first," 
said  Anna,  the  tears  running  down  her  cheeks. 

"Yes,"  said  Keturah,  "it's  easy  to  die,  people  do  it 
every  day.  But  the  worst  of  it  is,  you  can't  die  when  you 
want  to.  You  just  have  to  wait  and  wait  and  wait." 

"Well,  I  suppose  there  is  no  use  in  talkin'.  Give  me 
my  wages  and  let  me  go,"  said  Anna  Rice. 

"You  have  no  wages  coming  to  you,"  said  Keturah. 

"No  wages  comin' !"  said  the  girl  aghast. 

"None,"  said  Keturah.  "I'm  sorry,  but  you  have 
spoiled  this  week  a  great  deal  more  than  you  have  earned." 

"And  nothin'  in  the  house  for  mother  and  the 
babies !"  sobbed  the  child. 

"Annie,  where  is  your  father?"  said  Keturah. 

130      < 


A  Business  Requirement 

"At  the  Island/'  whispered  Annie,  "always  at  the 
Island." 

"What  for?"  said  Keturah. 

"Drunk." 

"Annie,  dear,  I'm  awfully  sorry  for  you.  I  can't  do 
much,  but  here  is  a  little  money  to  get  something  for 
mother  and  the  babies,  and  I'll  come  in  to-morrow  and 
see  how  you  are  getting  on." 

Annie  took  the  money  without  a  word,  and  left  the 
workroom. 

Keturah  sat  still  for  a  moment,  her  face  as  gray  as 
ashes,  and  then  she  called  to  the  girl  at  the  farther  end  of 
the  room,  saying,  "Carrie  Twine,  come  here."  Carrie 
Twine  was  a  large  girl  of  the  brunette  type.  As  she  stood 
before  Keturah  her  cheeks  were  flushed  and  her  brow  was 
sullen.  "Well,  what  do  you  want  ?"  she  said,  crossly. 

"I  am  afraid  you  will  have  to  leave  the  shop,"  said 
Keturah,  gently. 

"Leave  the  shop,"  said  the  girl,  "little  I  care  for  that ; 
but  what  will  I  leave  the  shop  for?" 

"You  know,"  said  Keturah. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Carrie  Twine.  "I'm  not  good 
enough  to  stay  in  the  shop.  I'm  not  fit  to  'sociate  with 
Miss  Bain  and  her  innocents,"  and  the  girl  laughed. 

"Come,  Carrie,  things  are  bad  enough.  Don't  make 
them  worse.  You  know  you  can't  stay  here  in  your  con- 
dition," said  Keturah,  her  face  quivering  with  pain. 

"How  did  I  come  to  be  in  my  condition?"  said  the 
girl,  fiercely. 

"You  know,"  answered  Keturah. 

"Yes,  and  you  know,  too.  You  know  that  man  watches 
for  us  girls  as  a  spider  watches  for  a  fly.  Why  don't  you 
send  him  away  ?  Oh !  he  is  the  foreman,  and  you  daren't 

131 


The  Greater  Love 

speak  to  him.  Which  one  of  the  girls  are  you  goin'  to 
give  him  when  I  am  gone  ?" 

"Oh,  Carrie  don't,  please  don't.  Here  is  your  money. 
Take  it  and  go." 

"Yes,  I'll  go.  There's  more  ways  than  one  of  makin' 
a  livin'.  I'll  go  fast  enough,  don't  you  fear." 

The  girl  took  her  money  and  with  a  toss  of  her  head 
passed  out  of  the  door  and  down  the  stairs. 

That  night  Carrie  Twine  went  out  on  the  street. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

WHAT  DOGS  ARE  FOR 

WHEN  Keturah  left  the  shop  that  Saturday,  after  dis- 
missing Anna  Rice  and  Carrie  Twine,  she  walked  through 
the  streets  hanging  her  head,  and  her  cheeks  burning  with 
shame.  She  felt  herself  guilty  of  a  disgraceful  act.  She 
was  an  oppressor  of  the  poor,  and  an  encourager  of  vice. 
It  is  true,  she  hated  all  these  things  with  all  her  heart, 
and  with  all  her  soul,  but  she  had  to  do  them.  If  she  did 
not  she  would  lose  her  own  living  and  the  living  of  all 
depending  on  her,  and  no  good  would  come  of  it.  If  she 
did  not  obey  orders  she  would  be  sent  away,  and  another 
would  do  what  she  had  done.  In  any  case  Anna  Rice 
would  be  sent  out  to  beg  or  to  starve,  and  Carrie  Twine 
to  seduce  and  destroy. 

Keturah  had  to  confess  that  even  Mr.  Rosenthal  was 
not  greatly  to  blame.  It  was  simply  a  business  necessity. 
He  could  not  keep  Anna  Rice  when  she  spoiled  more  than 
she  earned,  nor  Carrie  Twine  when  she  had  become 
wicked  and  morose.  The  pity  of  it  all  was  that  no  one 
could  help  it.  It  was  a  part  of  the  natural  order  of  things. 

When  Keturah  reached  home  she  found  a  new  vexa- 
tion awaiting  her.  Benjamin  met  her  with  the  news  that 
Shinar  was  in  jail. 

"Shinar  in  jail!"  cried  Keturah.  "What  has  the  boy 
been  doing  that  he  should  be  in  jail  ?" 

133 


The  Greater  Love 

"Dog  fightin',"  said  Benjamin. 

"Dog  fighting?  Do  you  mean  to  say  he  was  taken  to 
jail  for  that?" 

"Sure,"  said  Benjamin,  "and  they'll  send  him  to  the 
Island  for  a  month." 

"How  dreadful!"  said  Keturah,  "that  will  ruin  the 
boy.  He  will  learn  more  wickedness  there  in  a  month 
than  he  has  learned  in  all  his  life  before.  Shinar  is  not 
a  bad  boy,  and  they  shall  not  make  him  a  bad  boy.  I 
must  go  and  see  what  can  be  done  for  him." 

"There  can't  nothin'  be  done  fer  him,"  said  Benjamin. 
"It  wasn't  the  cop  as  took  him.  It  was  the  agent  of  the 
Cruelty,  and  them  agents  don't  let  go  when  they  get  hold ; 
it's  money  to  them." 

"I  can't  help  who  has  taken  him,"  said  Keturah.  "I 
wont  let  them  send  him  to  the  Island.  Where  is  he  now  ?" 

"At  the  Tombs,  I  guess,"  said  Benjamin,  "and  you'd 
better  let  him  alone.  It'll  do  him  good,  he's  too  fresh." 

Without  stopping  to  defend  her  favorite  from  this 
aspersion,  which  even  if  true  was  not  important,  Keturah 
found  herself  for  the  second  time  in  the  same  week  on 
her  way  to  the  prison  of  the  Tombs.  She  was  in  no 
gentle  mood  when  she  reached  that  gloomy  abode  of 
crime.  She  was  angry  with  Shinar  and  angry  with  the 
world,  and  anger  gave  her  the  spirit  to  fight  for  the  sal- 
vation of  the  boy  whom  she  had  brought  up  from  infancy. 

She  walked  up  to  the  desk  in  the  station-house  and 
demanded  of  the  officer  to  know  where  Shinar  was. 

The  officer  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  and  said, 
"What  do  you  want  to  know  for?  Are  you  any  relation 
o'  his?" 

"I  do  not  think  that  makes  any  difference.  I  want  to 
know  where  he  is  because  I  want  to  help  him.  I'm  no 

i34 


What  Dogs  Are  For 

relation,  but  I  have  known  him  since  he  was  a  baby.  He 
is  not  a  bad  boy,  and  I  want  to  save  him  from  the  Island 
if  I  can.  Please  tell  me  where  he  is.  I  want  to  get  him 
out  of  jail." 

The  officer  turned  lazily  to  his  register  and  said :  "He 
has  been  sent  to  the  Special  Session  for  trial.  They  are 
clearing  the  prison  to-day  to  make  room  for  the  Sunday 
drunks.  If  you  want  to  see  him  before  he  is  sent  to  the 
Island  you'd  better  hurry.  They  rush  things  along 
Saturday  afternoon." 

Keturah  inquired  her  way  to  the  court  room  where 
the  Special  Sessions  was  sitting.  It  was  a  dark,  illy- 
ventilated  room  in  the  Tombs.  The  Court,  composed  of 
three  judges,  disposed  of  cases  of  crime  and  misdemeanor, 
which  did  not  call  for  jury  trial,  that  were  sent  to  them 
from  the  police  court. 

When  Keturah  entered  the  room  she  became  faint  and 
sick.  The  air  of  the  room  was  foul  and  close.  The  prison 
pen  was  full  of  bedraggled  men  and  women,  whose  un- 
washed faces  and  uncombed  hair  gave  them  the  appear- 
ance of  wild  creatures  of  the  wood.  These  human  cattle 
looked  on  the  proceedings  of  the  court  room  with  the 
stolid  indifference  of  beasts  that-  do  not  know  or  care 
what  is  to  become  of  them. 

The  judges  on  the  bench  and  the  lawyers  within  the 
bar  had  the  appearance  of  men  who  were  ashamed  of  what 
they  were  doing,  and  were  in  haste  to  be  done  with  it. 
Little  time  was  wasted  in  disposing  of  the  riff-raff  of 
humanity  which  was  there  at  the  bar  of  judgment.  A 
few  hasty  questions ;  a  short  decision  of  twenty  dollars  or 
sixty  days,  sent  them  one  after  another,  out  of  the 
prisoners'  dock,  back  to  the  prisoners'  pen,  to  wait  until 
the  whole  batch  was  disposed  of,  that  they  might  all  be 
transported  to  the  Island. 


The  Greater  Love 

Outside  the  bar  was  that  motley  crowd  of  beggars, 
thieves,  and  prostitutes  that  make  the  audience  of  every 
police  court. 

This  is  for  such  as  they  better  than  a  play;  it  is  the 
drama  of  real  life,  and  they  watch  it  with  the  keenest 
interest.  The  beggar,  the  thief,  and  the  prostitute  are  all 
people  of  leisure.  Their  business  occupies  only  a  small 
portion  of  their  time.  In  the  police  court  they  find  diver- 
sion that  is  both  interesting  and  exciting.  The  actors  on 
the  stage  before  them  are  their  friends  and  companions, 
in  whose  fate  they  have  that  lively  concern  which  men 
always  have  in  the  misfortunes  of  others. 

Keturah  made  her  way  through  the  court  room  to  the 
bar.  Sitting  close  to  the  bar,  and  leaning  upon  it  was 
Lead-pencil  Morrison,  a  big,  burly  English  bully,  foul  in 
person  and  foul  in  soul,  who  begged  and  beat  his  way 
through  the  world,  enjoyed  all  of  its  pleasures  that  he 
cared  for,  and  did  none  of  its  work.  Keturah  knew  him : 
he  had  certain  political  relations  with  her  father.  She 
never  could  look  at  him  without  a  shudder.  As  she  stood 
beside  him  there  at  the  bar  of  the  court  she  felt  herself 
degraded  by  the  sight  of  him.  As  he  leaned  upon  the 
rail  he  was  leering  at  a  woman  in  the  prisoners'  dock,  who 
was  being  tried  on  a  charge  of  petty  larceny  from  the 
person,  and  was  already  convicted  and  sentenced,  and  was 
standing  in  the  dock  gazing  listlessly  at  the  court  and  the 
people.  She  and  Lead-pencil  Morrison  were  pals.  He 
had  the  money  which  she  had  stolen.  She  looked  at  him 
and  he  looked  at  her,  and  then  she  went  her  way  to  serve 
out  her  six  months'  sentence,  while  he  was  free  to  do  with 
other  women  as  he  had  done  with  her. 

When  Keturah  saw  the  look  that  passed  between  this 
man  and  woman,  her  head  began  to  swim,  and  the  room 

136 


What  Dogs  Are  For 

to  grow  dark;  a  horror  of  great  darkness  was  settling 
down  upon  her,  and  she  laid  hold  of  the  bar  to  keep  her- 
self from  falling.  As  she  was  striving  to  hold  herself 
together  she  heard  the  quick,  sharp  voice  of  the  presiding 
judge  call  the  name  Shinar.  At  the  sound  of  this  name 
the  darkness  fell  away  from  Keturah,  and  she  lifted  up 
her  eyes  and  saw  Shinar  standing  in  the  prisoners'  dock. 
In  the  midst  of  all  that  sin  and  foulness  he  gave  the  im- 
pression of  innocence  and  cleanness.  He  was  a  tall  lad 
upon  whose  face  vice  had  made  no  mark.  His  dark 
hair,  curled  close  to  his  head,  gave  him  an  appearance  of 
neatness,  and  his  brown  eyes,  shining  with  honest  light, 
indicated  anything  but  a  bad  boy. 

When  the  judge  looked  at  him,  he  gave  a  start  as  if  he 
saw  an  unaccustomed  sight:  his  keen  eye  detected  a 
novice  in  the  dock. 

"What  is  your  name  ?"  said  the  Judge. 

"Shinar,"  said  the  boy. 

"How  do  you  spell  it?"  said  the  judge. 

The  boy  spelled  his  name. 

"What  is  your  other  name?"  asked  the  judge. 

"I  aint  got  no  other  name,"  answered  the  boy. 

"Yes,  you  have,"  said  the  judge.  "You  must  have 
another  name.  What  is  it?" 

"I  aint  got  no  other  name,  my  name  is  jes'  Shinar." 

"Why  didn't  you  say  so?"  said  the  judge.  "Clerk, 
enter  the  prisoner's  name  as  Jesse  Shinar.  What  is  the 
charge  against  him  ?"  The  clerk  read  a  paper  which  set 
forth  that  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  had  been  guilty  of  violat- 
ing the  statute  which  made  the  encouragement  and  abet- 
ting of  dog  fighting  in  the  State  of  New  York  a  mis- 
demeanor to  be  punished  by  fine  or  imprisonment  or  both. 
When  the  reading  of  the  charge  was  ended  the  judge 

137 


The  Greater  Love 

said :  "You  are  accused  of  dog  fighting.  Are  you 
guilty  ?" 

"No,  I  aint,"  said  the  boy. 

"You  are  not  guilty,"  said  the  judge,  "do  you  mean 
to  say  that  you  didn't  fight  these  dogs  ?" 

"No,  sir,  I  didn't,  the  dorgs  fighted  theirselves." 

"And  you  didn't  encourage  or  abet  them,"  said  the 
judge,  impatiently. 

"I  didn't  'courage  'em,"  said  Shinar,  "they  'couraged 
theirselves,  but  I  did  bet  Tim  Maloney  that  my  pup  'ud 
whip  his  brindle  inside  o'  ten  minutes  by  the  clock." 

"Then  you  did  fight  the  dogs,"  said  the  President  of 
the  Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  Animals,  who 
was  conducting  the  case  for  the  State.  The  boy,  having 
no  counsel,  had  to  conduct  his  own  case. 

"No,  I  didn't  fight  no  dorg,  I  tells  ye.  The  dorgs 
fighted  theirselves." 

"But  you  set  them  on." 

"No,  I  didn't.  I  didn't  do  nothin'.  I  jes  let  go  the 
string.  The  dorgs  went  at  it  theirselves." 

"But  you  stood  by  and  watched  them  and  bet  on  the 
result.  That  is  encouragement  and  abetment  within  the 
meaning  of  the  law.  Didn't  you  know  that  ?  Don't  you 
know  that  it  is  wrong  for  dogs  to  fight?" 

"No,  I  don't,"  answered  Shinar,  "and  the  dorgs  don't 
neither.  They'd  ruther  fight  than  eat,  any  day.  My  bull 
terrier  never  had  a  better  time  in  his  life  than  he  had  the 
day  he  whipped  Maloney's  brindle." 

"But  how  about  the  brindle  ?    Did  he  like  it  ?" 

"I  guess  not,"  said  Shinar.  "The  whipped  dorg  never 
does ;  but  then,  if  yer  goin'  to  have  the  fun  o'  dorg  fightin' 
youse  got  to  have  a  whipped  dorg.  It  ain't  no  fight  if 
you  don't." 

138 


What  Dogs  Are  For 

Here  the  court  interrupted  the  conversation  between 
the  boy  and  the  prosecutor,  saying:  "We  cannot  waste 
our  time  in  this  way.  Mr.  Prosecutor,  call  your  witness." 
The  agent  who  arrested  the  boy  was  sworn,  and  testified 
to  finding  the  boys  engaged  in  fighting  their  dogs  in  the 
stable  yard  of  Price's  livery.  One  of  the  boys  had  es- 
caped, but  this  one  he  had  arrested.  It  was  clearly  a  fight, 
within  the  meaning  of  the  law. 

When  the  agent  had  finished,  the  court  said  to  the 
boy:  "What  do  you  say  to  that?" 

"I  say  that's  all  right ;  my  bull  terrier  was  fightin'  Tim 
Maloney's  brindle.  But  I  wasn't  hurtin'  the  dorg.  I 
wouldn't  hurt  him,  no,  not  for  nothin'.  When  Jimmy 
Mulchahy  was  stonin'  him  I  swiped  him  over  the  mouth ; 
I  wouldn't  let  no  boy  stone  my  dorg.  That  ain't  what 
dorgs  is  for.  I  jes'  cut  his  string  and  run,  didn't  I,  Ke- 
turah?"  said  the  boy,  looking  at  his  friend  behind  the 
bar.  "There  she  is,"  said  Shinar.  "She's  my  friend. 
She'll  tell  ye  I  ain't  no  bad  boy.  As  fer  this  fightin', 
that's  all  right,  that's  what  dorgs  is  for." 

"Mr.  Prosecutor,"  said  the  court,  "we  are  inclined 
to  dismiss  the  case  against  this  prisoner." 

"Your  honors,  I  protest  against  any  such  course.  The 
prisoner  is  clearly  guilty,  and  if  the  cruel  practice  of  dog 
fighting  is  to  be  stopped,  an  example  must  be  made.  I 
demand  judgment  on  the  prisoner." 

The  presiding  judge  consulted  with  his  colleagues 
and  then  said,  snappishly :  "Five  dollars  or  ten  days." 

At  this  Keturah  Bain  spoke  out  and  said :  "You  must 
not  send  that  boy  to  the  Island  and  make  a  bad  boy  of 
him.  There  are  bad  boys  enough  in  the  world." 

There  was  a  stir  in  the  court  as  this  clear  voice  of 
protest  was  heard.  The  judges  looked  up  and  frowned, 
and  the  crier  cried:  "Silence  in  the  court!" 


The  Greater  Love 

The  presiding  judge  said,  kindly,  "You  can  pay  the 
boy's  fine,  if  you  wish,  and  take  him  away.  It  is  the 
best  thing  you  can  do  for  him.  The  Island  is  a  bad  place 
for  him." 

"I  will  pay  the  fine,"  said  Keturah,  and  looking 
fiercely  at  the  prosecutor,  she  said:  "and  if  we  took  as 
good  care  of  our  boys  and  girls,  as  some  people  try  to 
take  of  the  dogs,  we  wouldn't  have  so  many  of  them 
in  the  prison  and  on  the  street." 

"Silence  in  the  court !"  cried  the  crier. 

Keturah,  without  further  words,  went  round  to  the 
clerk's  desk  and  paid,  out  of  her  week's  wages,  the  fine 
imposed  upon  Shinar.  The  boy  received  his  certificate 
of  discharge,  and  he  and  Keturah  left  the  court  room 
together. 


140 


CHAPTER  XX 

A  NEW  NAME  AND  A  NEW  LIFE 

WHEN  they  reached  the  street  Keturah  let  loose  upon 
the  boy  the  vials  of  her  wrath. 

"You  are,"  she  said,  "a  wicked  and  ungrateful  boy. 
You  do  not  care  for  me,  and  forget  all  that  has  been  done 
for  you.  You  are  going  to  the  bad  as  fast  as  you  can.  If 
you  keep  on  you  will  soon  be  sent  to  the  Island,  and  after 
that  to  Sing  Sing.  And  all  the  years  I  have  spent  work- 
ing for  you  will  be  wasted  in  the  making  of  a  criminal. 
I  am  ashamed  of  you,  Shinar.  A  big  boy  like  you,  almost 
a  man,  behaving  like  a  little  street  urchin.  If  that  is  all 
you  mean  to  do  with  yourself  and  for  yourself,  I  shall 
have  nothing  more  to  do  with  you.  I  have  troubles 
enough  of  my  own  without  having  to  run  after  you  and 
keep  you  out  of  trouble." 

Keturah's  speech  ended  in  a  sob.  Shinar  heard  her 
with  hanging  head  and  burning  cheeks. 

"But,  Keturah,"  he  said,  "I  didn't  mean  no  harm.  I 
didn't  know  it  was  wrong." 

"Didn't  mean  any  harm,  didn't  know  it  was  wrong! 
That  is  the  worst  of  it.  You  are  nearly  eighteen  years 
old,  and  you  don't  know  what  is  right  and  what  is  wrong. 
I  am  ashamed  of  you." 

"Yes,  Keturah,"  said  the  boy,  with  heaving  chest  and 

141 


The  Greater  Love 

choking  voice,  and  tears  streaming  down  his  cheeks,  "yes, 
and  I'm  'shamed  o'  myself.  I  aint  nothin'  but  a  street 
boy.  I  aint  got  no  father  nor  no  mother,  and  has  to  set 
in  front  o'  Cronin's  saloon  and  hear  nothin'  all  day  long 
but  cursin'  and  vile  talk.  I  don't  have  no  fun  at  all,  at 
all,  'cept  a  bit  o'  dog  fight  now  and  then,  and  fer  that  they 
pull  me  in  and  send  me  to  the  Island.  I  aint  goin'  to 
live  this  kind  o'  life  any  longer.  I'm  goin'  away  from 
here  into  the  country  and  be  a  man,  not  a  street  loafer." 

These  words  were  spoken  bitterly,  and  ended  in  a 
hearty  fit  of  crying. 

Keturah  took  the  boy  by  the  hand  and  led  him  into 
the  hallway  of  a  house,  and  there  she  put  her  arms  about 
him  and  said :  "There,  there,  Shinar,  don't  cry,  don't  cry. 
I  was  wrong  to  be  angry  with  you.  You  are  not  to  blame. 
You  do  the  best  you  can.  You  are  right  about  leaving 
Cronin's  saloon.  It  is  no  place  for  you.  You  must  take 
up  some  kind  of  work  that  will  make  a  man  of  you." 

Keturah  held  the  boy's  head  against  her  breast  and 
comforted  him  until  he  ceased  from  crying.  She  took 
out  her  handkerchief  and  wiped  away  the  tears  from  his 
eyes,  saying :  "There,  dearie,  there.  You  are  a  good  boy, 
and  I  am  a  cross,  wicked,  old  woman." 

At  this  Shinar  laughed,  and  holding  Keturah's  hand 
in  his  and  patting  it,  said:  "You  aint  wicked  and  you 
aint  old.  You  are  the  best  mother  a  poor  street  boy 
ever  had.  If  you  hadn't  took  me  up  when  I  was  a  baby, 
I'ud  been  a  long  time  dead  by  now." 

"Yes,  dear,"  said  Keturah,  "you  would  have  been  dead 
sure  enough,  and  now  that  you  are  alive,  you  must  live  to 
some  purpose.  You  must  not  stay  at  Cronin's  any  longer. 
I  think  you  had  better  go  away  to  the  country  and  forget 
the  ways  of  the  street.  I  will  speak  to  Mr.  Best  about 

142 


A  New  Name  and  a  New  Life 

it,  and  he  will  get  a  home  for  you  out  in  the  West,  and 
you  will  be  a  great  man  there  and  come  back  a  senator, 
or  maybe  a  president."  And  Keturah  laughed,  and 
Shinar  laughed  also. 

As  they  were  walking  along  and  chatting  as  to  how 
their  plan  was  to  be  carried  out,  Keturah  happened  to 
look  at  the  paper  which  she  held  in  her  hand,  and  when 
she  read  it  she  cried :  "Shinar,  Shinar,  they  have  given 
you  a  new  name." 

"What  is  it?"  said  the  boy. 

"Jesse,  Jesse  Shinar ;  isn't  that  a  nice  name  ?" 

"Yes,  that's  bully !" 

"Oh,  Shinar,"  said  Keturah,  "don't  say  bully.  You 
aren't  a  street  boy  any  longer  and  you  mustn't  talk  street 
talk." 

"All  right,  Keturah,  it  aint  bully,  it's  jes  dandy,  aint 
it?" 

"Shinar,  Shinar,  if  you  are  going  to  be  a  senator,  you 
will  have  to  go  to  school  and  learn  to  speak  English  in- 
stead of  slang.  Now  you  have  a  new  name  you  must 
begin  a  new  life.  We  will  see  about  it  as  soon  as  we 
can." 

So  it  was  settled  between  the  foster  mother  and  the 
foster  son  that  he  was  to  make  a  radical  change  in  his 
life,  to  begin  to  live  as  a  man  and  not  as  a  boy.  Neither 
of  them  thought  yet  of  the  pain  of  parting.  They  saw  the 
end  of  the  new  life  in  honor  and  prosperity,  not  its  be- 
ginning in  exile  and  hard  work. 

When  they  reached  home,  it  was  toward  evening,  and 
the  day  was  far  spent.  As  they  were  going  through  the 
passage  way,  Keturah  drew  Shinar  to  her  bosom  and 
kissed  him,  and  sent  him  with  a  happy  heart  to  his  own 
house. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

A  COVERT  FROM  THE  .WIND 

WHEN  Keturah  reached  home  she  found  herself  ut- 
terly exhausted  by  the  varied  experiences  and  emotions 
of  the  day,  and  she  had  one  more  trial  to  meet  before  that 
long  day  ended  in  night. 

When  her  family  heard  of  what  she  had  done  for 
Shinar,  how  she  had  paid  his  fine  and  kept  him  from 
going  to  the  Island,  they  overwhelmed  her  with  a  storm 
of  reproaches.  Mother  Bain  whined,  Abigail  sulked, 
and  Benjamin  sneered;  even  Captain  Bain  found  fault, 
saying:  "Don't  you  think,  Keturah,  that  was  goin'  jest 
a  leetle  too  far  ?" 

"Too  far,  father,  not  at  all.  Do  you  suppose  I  would 
let  that  boy  go  to  the  Island  and  be  ruined  forever  ?" 

"Maybe  not,"  said  the  Captain,  "maybe  not,  but  when 
all's  said  and  done,  the  boy  aint  your  boy  and  you  aint 
got  no  call  to  look  arter  him." 

"Not  my  boy,"  said  Keturah,  flushing  with  anger,  "I 
would  like  to  know  why  he  is  not  my  boy.  He  is  all  the 
boy  I  have,  and  all  the  boy  I'm  like  to  have.  You  have 
done  all  you  can  to  keep  me  from  having  any  boy  of  my 
own,  and  now  you  scold  and  find  fault  if  I  spend  a 
dollar  or  two  to  keep  a  lad  I  have  brought  up  from  a  baby 
out  of  jail.  I've  worked  and  starved  until  I  am  old  and 

MS 


The  Greater  Love 

gray,  and  am  snarled  and  sneered  at  when  I  do  the  least 
little  thing  for  myself." 

The  family  stood  aghast  at  Keturah's  outbreak.  It 
was  so  unusual  that  it  caused  the  greatest  consternation. 
The  poor  overwrought  woman  burst  into  tears,  and  with- 
out waiting  to  eat  a  morsel  of  supper,  went  away  and  shut 
herself  in  her  room.  She  threw  herself  as  she  was  upon 
the  bed  and  lay  in  the  darkness  with  her  face  to  the  wall, 
conscious  of  nothing  but  weariness  of  body  and  sorrow 
of  soul. 

After  a  long  fit  of  crying,  she  got  up  and  undressed 
and  went  to  bed  and  fell  into  a  deep,  heavy  sleep.  When 
she  woke  up  in  the  morning,  Keturah  heard  the  rain  beat- 
ing down  upon  the  pavement  of  the  court,  and  that  sound 
caused  her  heart  to  fail  within  her.  It  meant  a  Sunday 
at  home.  And  a  Sunday  at  home  was  the  dread  of  Ke- 
turah's life.  Keturah  had  often  wondered  whether  there 
was  any  place  in  the  universe  that  was  worse  than  her 
home  of  a  Sunday.  In  the  week  it  was  not  so  bad.  She 
was  away  all  day  at  her  work,  and  came  home  only  to 
sleep.  But  Sunday  brought  out  all  the  horrors  of  tene- 
ment life.  Half-dressed  men  and  women  lounging  at 
the  windows  of  the  front  tenement,  slatternly  girls  and 
boys  playing  and  fighting  in  the  narrow  court,  or  if  it 
rained,  making  the  day  hideous  with  cries  and  screams 
from  window  to  window. 

In  her  own  house  it  was  no  better.  The  woman  had 
no  privacy  except  in  her  dark,  stifling  bedroom.  In  the 
living  room  the  men  sat  about  in  their  shirt  sleeves,  smok- 
ing their  pipes.  Mrs.  Bain  was  more  slovenly  than 
usual  and  even  Abigail,  if  she  was  at  home,  was  untidy. 
It  was  one  of  the  many  disorganized  households  where 
mutual  respect  has  been  lost,  and  soul  displays  itself  to 
soul  in  a  sort  of  hideous  nakedness. 

146 


A  Covert  from  the  Wind 

As  Keturah  lay  in  the  darkness,  she  saw  this  dreadful 
day  dragging  its  weary  hours  along,  and  she  almost 
screamed  in  her  despair.  She  went  to  the  window  in  the 
living  room,  where  Benjamin  was  sleeping  on  a  lounge, 
and  looking  out  of  the  window  saw  the  rain  coming  down 
in  sheets.  She  went  back  to  her  room  wondering  what 
she  would  do.  She  could  not  stay  in  the  house  all  day. 
Her  nerves  were  still  quivering  with  the  excitement  of 
the  day  that  was  gone ;  she  could  not  meet  the  family  and 
hear  the  fret,  fret,  of  her  mother,  the  snarling  of  her 
brother,  and  see  Abigail  in  the  sulks,  as  she  would  be  all 
day.  The  thought  of  it  all  was  intolerable.  The  wind 
and  the  rain  without  were  better  than  the  gloom  and  the 
bad  humor  within.  Keturah  rose  and  moved  about 
quietly,  so  as  not  to  wake  Abigail,  who  slept  with  her, 
dressed  herself  as  well  as  she  could  in  the  darkness,  and 
went  out  into  the  kitchen. 

Although  it  was  dark  in  the  house,  it  was  well  on  into 
the  morning,  past  nine  o'clock.  Keturah  took  from  the 
pantry  a  morsel  of  bread,  which  with  a  glass  of  water 
made  up  her  breakfast,  and  having  choked  down  the 
bread  by  means  of  the  water,  put  on  her  overshoes  and 
waterproof  coat  and  taking  her  umbrella,  went  out  into 
the  storm. 

As  soon  as  she  passed  out  of  the  passage  way,  Ke- 
turah's  spirit  revived.  The  rain  had  washed  the  air 
and  it  was  full  of  life  and  vigor.  As  Keturah  breathed, 
she  felt  her  very  soul  cleansed  by  the  freshness  and  purity 
of  morning.  The  rain  was  still  coming  down  in  long 
slanting  streams,  but  Keturah  did  not  mind  it.  The  very 
wetness  beating  against  her  face  was  a  refreshment. 

Walking  by  instinct  rather  than  by  conscious  direction, 
Keturah  made  her  way  down  Mulberry  Street  to  Chatham 


The  Greater  Love 

and  up  Chatham  to  Duane  and  across  Duane  to  Broad- 
way. The  poor  girl  was  going  the  way  that  she  went 
every  morning  to  work.  She  was  the  only  living  creature 
to  be  seen  on  that  morning  in  the  streets  of  the  city.  Not 
even  a  policeman  was  abroad. 

When  she  reached  Broadway,  Keturah  encountered 
a  new  difficulty.  The  wind  was  from  the  northeast,  and 
it  swept  down  Broadway  with  the  force  of  a  gale.  Ke- 
turah could  hardly  stand  up  against  it.  Not  knowing 
where  she  was  going,  she  turned  northward  and  went  up 
the  street.  She  battled  against  the  wind  and  crossed 
Pearl  Street  and  came  to  Worth.  As  she  was  crossing 
Worth  Street  a  mighty  gust  of  wind  came  upon  her,  took 
hold  of  her  umbrella,  twisted  it  inside  out,  and  left  her 
exposed  to  the  full  fury  of  the  storm.  Turning  aside, 
she  fled  through  the  gate  of  Saint  Nicholas  churchyard, 
to  the  church  porch  for  refuge.  She  stood  there  wet 
and  disconsolate,  wondering  what  she  was  to  do  next, 
when  the  sexton  came  along  and  opened  the  door  of  the 
church,  and  seeing  her  plight,  invited  her  to  come  into 
the  church. 

She  gladly  accepted  his  invitation,  as  she  was  shiver- 
ing with  the  wet  and  the  cold.  The  sexton  took  her  to  a 
seat  in  the  rear  of  the  church,  near  a  hot  air  register,  for 
though  it  was  the  latter  part  of  May,  he  had  kindled  a 
fire,  because  of  the  present  rain  and  the  cold.  Leaving 
Keturah  to  dry  her  garments  by  the  heat,  the  sexton  went 
about  his  duties,  preparing  the  church  for  the  worship 
that  was  soon  to  follow. 

Keturah  stood  over  the  register  until  she  was  fairly 
dry  and  warm,  and  then  as  the  storm  was  still  raging, 
sat  down  in  the  nearest  seat  to  wait  until  the  rain  and 
wind  should  cease,  and  so  fell  asleep. 

148 


CHAPTER  XXII 

OLD  SAINT  NICHOLAS 

SAINT  NICHOLAS  church,  in  which  Keturah  had  found 
refuge  from  the  storm,  was  one  of  the  oldest  churches  in 
the  city  of  New  York.  It  had  been  built  at  the  beginning 
of  the  seventeenth  century.  It  was  a  large  stone  build- 
ing, in  the  style  of  Wren;  with  columns  in  front,  sup- 
porting the  roof  of  a  deep  porch,  beyond  which  rose  the 
roof  of  the  church,  centering  in  a  dome.  It  was  a  small 
copy  of  Saint  Paul's,  London.  The  columns  were  of 
wood  and  plaster,  instead  of  stone,  and  the  porch  was 
roofed  with  shingles.  The  building  itself  was  of  blue 
freestone,  covered,  after  the  manner  of  the  time,  with 
stucco. 

The  church  stood  within  a  churchyard  that  extended 
from  Worth  to  Leonard  Street,  and  ran  down  the  hill 
to  the  hollow,  where  Center  Street  supplied  its  eastern 
boundary.  In  this  churchyard  were  the  graves  of  those 
who  had  once  worshipped  in  the  church. 

The  interior  of  the  church  was  not  attractive.  It 
was  painted  in  dark  colors,  which  absorbed  the  light  and 
made  it  gloomy,  even  on  a  bright  day.  On  such  a  day  as 
that  when  it  sheltered  Keturah,  it  was  dark  as  night,  and 
in  consequence  the  sexton  had  lighted  the  gas.  The 
church  was  furnished  with  high-backed  pews  of  imitation 

149 


The  Greater  Love 

mahogany,  each  supplied  with  a  door  that  latched  on 
the  inside  and  so  was  guarded  from  intrusion.  At  the 
far  end  of  the  church  was  a  mighty  structure,  reaching 
from  the  floor  nearly  to  the  roof.  It  was  built  in  stories 
or  lofts  and  contained  the  pulpit,  the  reading  desk,  and 
the  altar.  The  pulpit  was  at  the  top  and  was  reached 
by  a  long  flight  of  stairs.  The  preacher,  preaching  from 
that  height,  was  literally  "a  voice  from  heaven."  The 
reading  desk  was  many  feet  below  the  pulpit  and  had 
a  separate  stairway  of  its  own.  Below  that,  six  steps 
above  the  floor  of  the  church,  was  the  communion  table. 

Saint  Nicholas  was  an  Episcopal  church,  and  was 
one  of  the  richest  and  most  fashionable  churches  in  the 
city  of  New  York. 

Its  congregation  was  made  up  largely  of  old  Dutch 
families,  who  had  intermarried  with  the  English  gentry, 
and  had  conformed  to  the  English  church.  With  these 
were  mingled  the  families  of  successful  merchants,  whose 
wives  and  daughters  had  social  ambitions  and  who  found 
the  church  a  vestibule  to  the  best  society.  To  own  a  pew 
in  Saint  Nicholas  was  to  hold  a  certificate  of  high  social 
standing.  These  pews  were  let  with  the  greatest  care, 
and  were  much  sought  after.  There  were  orders  enough 
on  the  treasurer's  books  to  rent  the  church  twice  over. 
Men  were  ready  to  pay  five  thousand  dollars  a  year  to 
have  their  wives  and  daughters  sit  beside  the  Schuylers 
and  the  Van  Antwerps.  But  in  spite  of  its  prosperity, 
old  Saint  Nicholas  was  doomed.  It  was  far  down  town ; 
tenements  lined  its  lower  boundary  and  business  houses 
were  crowding  it  on  the  street.  The  land  it  occupied  was 
of  immense  value  for  business  purposes.  The  vestry, 
consulting  both  the  convenience  and  the  interest  of  the 
congregation,  had  sold  their  house  of  worship  and  the 

150 


Old  Saint  Nicholas 

graves  of  their  ancestors  for  many  millions  of  dollars, 
and  were  preparing  new  quarters  elsewhere.  Already 
the  walls  of  the  new  Saint  Nicholas  were  rising  on  Mur- 
ray Hill.  The  new  church,  designed  by  the  leading 
church  architect  of  the  day,  was  in  the  Gothic  style,  and 
was  to  be  the  largest  and  most  costly  church  on  Man- 
hattan Island.  There  were  to  be  no  wooden  pillars 
there,  but  monoliths  of  polished  granite,  and  walls  of 
Connecticut  freestone,  lined  inside  with  colored  marbles. 
Tiled  floors  and  seats  of  real  mahogany,  with  marble  altar 
and  pulpit  of  beaten  brass,  were  to  complete  the  building 
that  was  to  house  the  rich  and  aristocratic  congregation 
of  Saint  Nicholas. 

This  building  was  approaching  completion,  and  an- 
other year  would  see  the  flight  of  the  worshippers  from 
the  old  shrine  to  the  new. 

It  was  an  open  secret  that  when  the  congregation  re- 
moved from  the  lower  to  the  upper  part  of  the  city,  the 
rector,  the  venerable  Dr.  Van  Antwerp,  would  retire  upon 
a  handsome  pension,  and  the  rectorship  would  devolve 
upon  his  assistant,  the  Reverend  Dr.  Suydam,  who  had 
long  been  regarded  as  the  most  accomplished  and  elo- 
quent preacher,  as  well  as  the  most  popular  pastor  in  the 
Episcopal  church  in  the  diocese  of  New  York. 


151 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

A  DIVINE   YOKE-FELLOW 

KETURAH  was  awakened  from  a  quiet  sleep  by  the 
sound  of  music  in  the  church.  She  did  not  open  her 
eyes  at  once,  but  lay  with  her  head  resting  against  the 
back  of  the  pew,  listening  almost  unconsciously  to  the 
tones  of  the  organ,  as  they  entered  her  ears  and  soothed 
her  soul.  She  hungered  for  music,  and  she  heard  so  little 
of  it.  Her  life  was  full  of  discords,  not  of  concords  and 
melody.  As  she  lay  still  and  listened,  she  forgot  the  hard 
life  that  she  lived  every  day,  and  for  the  moment  was  in 
that  rest  that  remaineth  for  the  people  of  God. 

Suddeny  the  notes  of  the  organ  ceased,  and  a  human 
voice  was  heard,  saying :  "I  will  arise  and  go  to  my  Fa- 
ther, and  say  unto  him,  Father,  I  have  sinned  against 
heaven  and  before  thee,  and  am  no  more  worthy  to  be 
called  thy  son." 

At  the  sound  of  this  voice,  Keturah  lifted  up  her  eyes 
and  saw  two  men  in  white  robes,  standing  in  the  reading 
desk,  underneath  the  pulpit.  One  of  them  was  saying 
the  morning  prayer  of  the  Episcopal  church.  Keturah 
was  not  acquainted  with  the  prayer  book,  and  the  few 
times  she  had  visited  the  Episcopal  church  in  the  course 
of  her  life,  she  had  thought  the  service  formal  and  tire- 
some ;  but  somehow  it  was  different  that  morning.  The 

153 


The  Greater  Love 

great  church  was  empty.  There  were  not  a  dozen  persons 
in  it.  The  storm  was  still  raging  without,  and  the  rain 
was  beating  against  the  windows.  As  Keturah  sat  in  her 
seat,  she  had  a  sense  of  protection,  as  if  some  power 
greater  than  the  power  of  the  storm  were  shielding  her 
from  its  fury. 

She  did  not  attempt  to  follow  the  service  of  the  church. 
She  did  not  stand  nor  kneel,  but  sat  still  and  listened  to 
the  reading  and  the  singing,  as  if  she  were  in  a  dream. 
The  reader  of  the  morning  had  a  rich,  well-modulated 
voice,  and  interpreted  the  prophet  and  the  evangelist  so 
that  their  message  seemed  a  real  message  to  him,  and  he 
made  it  real  to  those  who  heard  him. 

Saint  Nicholas  was  famous  for  its  music.  Its  choir 
contained  the  finest  voices  that  money  could  hire.  That 
morning  there  was  a  sort  of  abandonment  in  the  singers, 
as  if  they,  like  birds,  were  singing  for  the  sake  of  the 
song  and  for  their  own  delight.  Keturah  had  never 
heard  anything  like  it  before.  She  seemed  to  herself  to 
be  in  some  celestial  grove,  where  birds  of  Paradise  were 
singing  at  the  break  of  the  eternal  day. 

The  worship  of  the  church  followed  its  accustomed 
course  through  praise  and  pleading  until  at  last,  after 
the  singing  of  a  hymn,  Keturah  heard  a  voice  that  she 
had  not  heard  before,  far  up  the  church,  saying:  "Take 
my  yoke  upon  you  and  learn  of  me;  for  I  am  meek  and 
lowly  of  heart,  and  ye  shall  find  rest  unto  your  souls." 

At  first  Keturah  could  not  tell  where  these  words 
came  from.  They  seemed  to  come  down  from  the  sky 
through  the  roof  of  the  church,  as  if  they  were  a  message 
from  the  storm  without.  As  Keturah  raised  her  startled 
eyes  to  look  if  she  could  see  the  speaker,  the  words  fell 
again  with  piercing  sweetness  upon  her  ears :  "Take  my 

154 


A  Divine  Yoke-Fellow 

yoke  upon  you  and  learn  of  me ;  for  I  am  meek  and  lowly 
of  heart,  and  ye  shall  find  rest  unto  your  souls." 

Following  the  sound,  Keturah  saw  a  man  standing  in 
the  high  pulpit  of  the  church.  He  was  far  away,  but  the 
light  was  on  his  face  and  she  could  see  it  plainly.  He 
seemed  a  young  man ;  his  dark  hair  fell  away  toward  the 
left  side,  from  a  broad,  high  forehead.  The  color  of  his 
eyes  could  not  be  seen  from  where  Keturah  sat,  but  they 
seemed  to  look  straight  at  her,  and  she  felt  their  glow 
as  one  feels  the  glow  of  distant  stars.  Standing  where 
he  did,  he  appeared  of  supernatural  height,  and  his  white- 
robed  figure  suggested  an  angel  of  annunciation  with 
some  special  word  to  a  waiting  soul.  His  voice,  while  not 
loud  was  clear,  and  filled  the  whole  building  with  intelli- 
gent sound.  Every  word  carried  its  meaning  to  every 
part  of  the  church.  It  was  a  voice  in  which  emotion  and 
thought  were  equally  blended.  The  man  seemed  not  only 
to  think  but  to  feel  what  he  said.  He  paused,  after  giving 
out  his  text,  and  from  every  corner  of  the  empty  church 
the  words  came  back  upon  the  ear,  losing  themselves  in 
whispering  sounds  as  if  an  hundred  angels  were  repeating 
the  words  of  the  great  angel,  saying:  "Take  my  yoke 
upon  you  and  learn  of  me ;  I  am  meek  and  lowly  of  heart, 
and  ye  shall  find  rest  unto  your  souls."  Keturah,  as  she 
heard  these  words  repeated  for  the  third  time,  was  startled 
into  attention.  She  became  wide  awake  and  began  to 
listen  intensely. 

After  a  moment's  pause  the  speaker  went  on,  saying : 
"These  words  of  our  Lord  and  Saviour  Jesus  Christ,  do 
not  convey  to  us  their  full  meaning,  because  we  do  not 
understand  the  figure  of  his  speech.  The  word  yoke, 
which  is  the  determining  word  of  this  passage,  is  a  word 
to  us  and  it  is  nothing  more.  The  most,  if  not  all,  of  us 

i55 


The  Greater  Love 

have  never  seen  a  yoke  and  do  not  really  know  what  it  is. 
Having  thus  no  distinct  conception  of  the  figure,  we  can- 
not understand  the  speech. 

"To  those,  however,  to  whom  the  Lord  was  speaking, 
this  word  suggested  that  with  which  they  were  most 
familiar.  It  was  an  instrument  that  they  used  in  their 
daily  toil.  While  listening  to  Jesus  speaking,  perhaps, 
upon  some  hillside  of  Gallilee,  they  could  see  the  beasts 
of  burden,  the  ass  and  the  oxen  yoked  together  by  their 
wooden  collar,  dragging  the  plow  through  the  unturned 
field  or  pulling  the  cart,  ladened  with  goods,  along  the 
dusty  road.  Thus  the  yoke  to  them  suggested  partner- 
ship in  toil.  Two  creatures  bound  together  in  a  common 
task.  It  was  the  yoke  that  held  the  animals  together  and 
it  was  the  yoke  that  attached  them  to  their  work.  If 
they  were  to  pull  at  all,  they  must  pull  together.  The 
ease  and  comfort  of  each  of  the  workers  depended  not  so 
much  upon  the  work  itself,  upon  the  burden  attached  to 
the  yoke,  as  they  did  upon  the  nature  and  disposition  of 
the  yoke-fellow.  Two  creatures  equally  yoked  together 
would  plod  all  day  long  in  comfortable  companionship, 
and  at  nightfall  would  be  weary  only  with  the  weariness 
of  patient  toil,  patiently  endured. 

"But  creatures  unequally  yoked  hinder  one  another 
in  their  common  task.  The  stolid  ox  yoked  to  the  restive 
ass  has  not  only  his  burden  to  bear,  but  he  has  to  endure 
all  the  caprices  of  his  yoke-fellow — his  startings  and  his 
stoppings,  his  jerkings  and  his  jumpings,  and  the  poor 
ox  can  make  no  headway,  but  comes  to  a  stop  at  night 
with  his  task  half  accomplished,  sore  of  body  and  be- 
wildered of  soul. 

"This,"  said  the  speaker,  "is  a  parable  of  human  life. 
Man  cannot  do  his  work  alone.  He  must  be  yoked  to 

156 


A  Divine  Yoke-Fellow 

some  power  beside  himself  if  he  would  perform  his  al- 
loted  task  before  the  sunset."  And  then  the  preacher 
went  on  to  show  the  various  yokes  that  man  must  bear. 
By  the  yoke  of  knowledge  and  obedience  he  is  bound  to 
nature,  and  walking  together  with  her  is  able  to  do  all 
the  mighty  things  that  he  has  done  in  the  world,  to  build 
his  cities  and  bridge  his  rivers,  and  to  pass  in  safety  over 
the  great  deep. 

He  spoke  also  of  the  yoke  of  interest  by  which  men 
were  united  in  great  common  enterprises  impossible  of 
accomplishment  in  any  other  way. 

He  treated  also  of  the  evil  yoke  of  pride  by  which 
men  yoke  themselves  to  an  eager  and  a  pushing  world, 
and  wear  out  their  souls  in  vain  ambitions  and  baseless 
hopes.  When  yoked  to  the  world  by  pride  and  ambition, 
a  man  has  the  world,  not  with  him,  but  against  him ;  his 
yoke  then  is  not  a  help,  it  is  a  hindrance.  The  world 
pulls  and  jerks  until  the  neck  is  sore  and  the  heart  is 
weary.  Woe  unto  that  man  or  that  woman  who  is  the 
evil  yoke- fellow  of  an  evil  world!  Night  will  find  them 
bruised  and  beaten,  bemoaning  work  undone. 

The  speaker  passed  on,  and  in  a  softer  tone  began  to 
speak  of  the  yoke  of  faith  and  love  by  which  man  may 
be  united  to  God  in  Christ  Jesus,  for  the  work  of  life. 
The  yoke  of  Christ  is  not  something,  he  said,  "that  we 
bear  for  him,  but  it  is  something  we  bear  with  him.  He 
is  our  yoke-fellow  and  toils  with  us  from  morning  until 
evening.  Too  often  we  think  of  Christ  as  if  he  had  taken 
his  neck  from  under  the  burden  of  life,  and  were  now  in 
eternal  felicity  at  the  right  of  the  Majesty  on  high,  judg- 
ing our  toil  by  the  hard  measure  of  his  accomplishment, 
expecting  us  to  do  alone,  what  he  could  do  only  by  the 
help  of  his  Father.  Not  such  is  the  teaching  of  the  Gos- 


The  Greater  Love 

pel.  Having  once  placed  his  neck  in  the  yoke  of  human 
life,  he  is  to  remain  there  always,  even  to  the  end  of  the 
world.  He  comes  to  all  who  travail  and  are  heavy  laden, 
and  taking  the  heavier  side  of  the  burden  upon  himself, 
toils  with  them  until  the  task  is  done. 

"Remember  that  though  the  yoke  of  Christ  is,  com- 
paratively, an  easy  one,  it  is  still  a  yoke,  and  it  means  a 
task  and  a  burden.  Jesus  yoked  himself  to  humanity  by 
means  of  the  cross.  He  did  not  take  away  the  sorrow 
of  human  life ;  he  simply  shared  it.  He  does  not  relieve 
man  of  the  burden  of  existence;  he  only  helps  him  to 
bear  it." 

And  then  lifting  up  his  voice,  as  if  he  would  make  it 
pass  through  the  granite  walls  of  the  church  and  pene- 
trate the  dark  tenements  at  the  foot  of  the  churchyard, 
he  cried  in  tones  of  entreaty,  "Oh,  ye  who  are  poor  and 
lonely,  upon  whom  is  laid  the  burden  and  heat  of  the 
day;  who  go  on  your  way  weeping,  bearing  your  good 
seed;  whose  labor  is  from  the  morning  till  the  evening; 
whose  bread  is  affliction  and  whose  drink  is  tears,  why 
will  ye  labor  and  suffer  alone,  when  a  little  faith  and  a 
little  love  would  make  you  the  yoke-fellow  of  God  in 
Christ,  your  toil  to  be  lightened  with  his  help,  and  your 
way  sweetened  by  his  company?" 

As  the  voice  of  the  preacher  died  away  into  the  ascrip- 
tion, Keturah  Bain  found  herself  standing  upright,  her 
hands  grasping  the  back  of  the  seat  in  front  of  her,  her 
eyes  straining  toward  the  speaker,  her  soul  quivering 
with  excitement. 

She  had  heard  a  voice  from  heaven. 


158 


IS  IT  TRUE? 

THE  woman  stood  still  as  if  in  a  trance.  She  did  not 
notice  the  few  people  as  they  passed  out  of  the  church. 
Her  eyes  were  on  the  empty  pulpit  from  whence  the 
preacher  had  gone  down.  She  was  engaged  in  one  of 
those  intense  debates  which  decide  the  destiny  of  human 
souls.  Was  what  she  had  just  heard  true?  Was  God 
really  on  the  side  of  the  weary  and  the  heavy  laden;  on 
the  side  of  the  toiler,  and  not  of  the  one  who  was  driving 
him  to  his  toil?  Did  God  indeed  bear  the  yoke  and  not 
carry  the  whip? 

She  had  never  heard  that  before.  She  felt  that  it 
ought  to  be  true;  but  was  it?  Her  soul  quivered  with 
painful  joy  at  the  bare  possibility  of  its  truthfulness.  If 
true,  here  was  the  explanation  of  her  life.  She  and  God 
were  doing  some  necessary  work  together,  bearing  some 
common  burden,  to  lay  it  down  in  its  allotted  place.  Oh, 
the  joy  of  the  thought!  Not  fighting  against  Fate,  but 
working  with  God. 

As  Keturah  stood  arguing  thus  with  herself,  two 
men  came  down  the  church  and  were  about  to  pass  her 
by.  Keturah  seeing  them,  turned  abruptly,  and  said : 
"Can  you  tell  me  who  it  was  that  has  just  been  speaking 
in  the  church?" 

159 


The  Greater  Love 

The  elder  of  the  two  men  answered,  saying:  "It  was 
I.  Can  I  do  anything  for  you  ?" 

"May  I  speak  to  you  for  a  moment?"  asked  Keturah. 

"Certainly,"  said  the  man,  and  motioning  to  his  com- 
panion to  pass  on,  he  turned  into  the  pew  where  Keturah 
was  standing,  asked  her  to  sit  down,  and  looking  at  her 
kindly,  said:  "What  is  it?  What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

"Is  it  true?"  said  Keturah,  eagerly. 

"Is  what  true  ?"    said  the  minister. 

"That  which  you  said  this  morning.  Is  it  true  that 
God  helps  us  ?" 

"Certainly  it  is  true,"  said  the  preacher.  "Surely  you 
have  heard  that  before ;  surely  you  believe  it  ?" 

"I  have  never  heard  it  before,"  answered  Keturah, 
"and  I  never  believed  it  till  now.  I  can  hardly  believe  it 
even  now.  It  is  too  good  to  be  true." 

"My  dear  child,"  said  the  minister,  "where  were  you 
brought  up  that  you  have  never  learned  so  simple  a 
truth?" 

"Do  you  call  it  a  simple  truth,  sir?  Why,  to  me  it  is 
the  hardest  thing  in  the  world  to  believe.  I  was  brought 
up  here  in  the  city  of  New  York.  I  live  down  in  Mul- 
berry Street.  I  am  a  poor  working  woman.  I  live  with 
the  poor  and  see  their  misery.  I  don't  see  that  God  helps 
them  at  all.  He  is  not  on  their  side.  He  is  on  the  side 
of  the  rich." 

"It  does  seem  so,"  said  the  preacher,  gravely,  "but  it 
is  not  so.  I  was  speaking  to  you  this  morning  about 
Jesus  of  Nazareth,  the  Son  of  God.  Well,  you  know  he 
was  poor  and  afflicted  and  despised  and  rejected.  The 
rich  of  this  world  went  out  against  him  and  put  him  to 
death.  You  know  that,  do  you  not?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Keturah,  "I  know  that,  but  what  has 
that  to  do  with  it  ?" 

160 


Is  It  True? 

"Very  much,"  said  the  preacher.  "When  Jesus  was 
hanging  on  the  cross,  the  men  who  condemned  him  to 
death,  passed  by  and  railed  at  him  and  said,  'He  called 
himself  the  Son  of  God;  let  God  deliver  him  now  if  he 
will  have  him.'  You  see,  these  men  thought  that  God 
was  on  their  side  and  against  Jesus.  But  he  wasn't,  you 
know.  God  loved  and  helped  Jesus  more  when  he  was 
on  the  cross  than  at  any  other  time.  Jesus  was  bearing 
bravely  what  God  gave  him  to  bear,  and  God  uses  his 
sorrow  and  his  suffering  for  the  salvation  of  the  world." 

"I  see,  I  see,"  said  Keturah.  "I  never  have  been  told 
that  before.  I  have  been  told  that  God  was  punishing 
people  all  the  time  for  doing  such  little  things.  My 
father  believes  that.  He  says  that  when  he  was  a  boy  he 
was  whipped  all  the  time,  and  he  was  told  that  God  was 
going  to  send  him  to  hell  if  he  was  not  a  better  boy,  and 
all  he  did  was  to  have  a  little  fun.  My  father  does  not 
believe  in  any  God.  My  father  has  had  a  hard  life.  I 
am  so  sorry  for  my  father."  And  the  tears  gathered  in 
Keturah's  eyes  and  rolled  slowly  down  her  cheeks. 

The  minister  did  not  answer  for  a  moment.  He  was 
deeply  moved  by  the  emotion  of  the  woman  beside  him. 
Breaking  the  silence,  he  said  :  "I  do  not  wonder,  my  child, 
at  your  doubts  and  difficulties;  I  am  sure  that  if  I  had 
lived  as  you  have,  I  should  not  have  even  your  faith  and 
hope  and  love.  I  am  sorry  for  you  and  for  your  father." 

"Yes,"  said  Keturah,  breaking  in  eagerly,  "and  that 
is  not  the  worst.  I  am  forewoman  in  my  shop  and  have 
many  girls  under  me.  Yesterday  I  had  to  send  two  girls 
away.  One  of  them  was  a  poor  girl,  whose  father  is  a 
drunkard  and  whose  mother  has  just  had  twin  babies. 
Poor  Anna  had  so  little  to  eat  and  so  little  sleep  that  she 
could  not  do  the  work,  and  our  employer  told  me  to  send 

161 


The  Greater  Love 

her  away.  And  she  had  to  go.  Now  she  and  the  mother 
and  the  babies  are  starving.  And  what  can  I  do  ?  How 
does,  how  can  God  help  them  ?  And  the  other  girl,  Carrie 
Twine,  was  ruined  by  a  man,  who  has  ruined  a  number 
of  girls  in  our  shop,  and  I  had  to  send  her  away,  and  she 
is  out  on  the  street  selling  her  soul  for  bread.  How  does 
God  help  her?  Can  you  tell  me?  I  hated  myself  for 
sending  those  girls  away,  but  I  couldn't  do  anything  else. 
It  is  hard,  it  is  hard."  And  the  woman  leaned  her  head 
upon  the  back  of  the  seat  in  front  of  her  and  gave  way 
to  her  tears. 

The  preacher  sat  beside  her,  holding  her  hand.  He 
was  pale  and  still.  He  felt  himself  in  the  presence  of  a 
great  reality.  Words  were  becoming  things.  The  en- 
treaty of  the  closing  words  of  his  sermon  had  found  an 
answer.  A  soul  weary  and  heavy  laden  was  seeking  rest. 
He  did  not,  he  could  not  say  a  word  to  the  sorely  tried 
woman  beside  him.  He  simply  assured  her  of  his  sym- 
pathy by  the  gentle  pressure  of  his  hand. 

After  the  force  of  her  emotion  was  partly  spent,  Ke- 
turah  lifted  up  her  head  and  said  through  her  tears :  "I 
beg  your  pardon,  sir ;  I  have  no  right  to  bring  my  troubles 
to  you.  I  have  no  right  to  keep  you  here.  I  do  not  be- 
long to  your  church ;  I  am  only  a  stranger  from  the  street, 
driven  in  by  the  storm." 

"My  dear,"  said  the  preacher,  "you  are  not  a  stranger. 
You  are  a  friend,  a  very  dear  friend.  I  do  not  know  your 
name,  but  you  have  shown  me  your  heart  and  it  is  a 
brave  heart,  under  a  great  sorrow  and  heavy  burden.  Let 
me  help  you.  I  cannot  do  much,  but  I  can  do  a  little. 
I  can  give  you  friendship  and  sympathy.  Will  you  let 
me?" 

"Indeed  I  will,  sir.  You  are  very  kind,  I  do  need 
some  one  to  help  me.  May  I  see  you  again  ?" 

162 


Is  It  True? 

"Certainly,  my  child,  certainly.     Give  me  your  name 
and  address  and  I  will  come  and  see  you." 

"Oh,  sir,  you  could  not  do  that  I  work  all  day  and 
at  night  I  have  no  place  where  I  could  see  you.  My  fa- 
ther would  not  like  you  to  come  to  the  house.  He  does 
not  like  ministers,"  said  Keturah,  blushing.  "I  will  come 
here  and  listen  to  you,  and  when  I  am  in  trouble  I  will 
come  to  you  and  tell  you  and  let  you  help  me  if  you  will." 
"Thank  you,"  said  the  minister,  "I  will  be  glad  to 
have  you  do  so;  whenever  you  want  me,  let  me  know, 
and  I  will  make  an  appointment  to  meet  you.  But  you 
must  tell  me  your  name,  else  I  shall  not  know  when  you 
send  for  me." 

"My  name,"  she  said,  "is  Keturah  Bain." 
"And  mine,"  said  he,  "is  Jacob  Suydam." 
While  this  conversation  had  been  going  on  the  janitor 
had  been  moving  about  uneasily,  trying  to  attract  the  at- 
tention of  Dr.  Suydam.  He  did  not  like  the  situation  at 
all.  This  strange  woman  had  no  right  to  stop  Dr.  Suy- 
dam after  service.  He  was  tired  after  preaching  and 
ought  to  go  home.  Beside,  they  were  keeping  the  janitor 
and  his  dinner  was  getting  cold.  Shaking  his  keys  to 
make  a  noise,  the  janitor  walked  up  to  the  seat  where  the 
minister  and  the  woman  were  sitting,  and  said : 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  but  your  carriage  is  waiting." 
"Very  well,  Jenkins,"  said  Dr.  Suydam,  and  turning 
to  the  woman  he  said,  "I  must  go  now.     You  will  surely 
let  me  hear  from  you." 

"Yes  sir,  I  will,"  answered  Keturah,  and  they  passed 
out  of  the  church  together.  Dr.  Suydam  got  into  his 
carriage  and  was  driven  up  Broadway,  and  Keturah 
went  down  the  street,  the  eyes  of  the  janitor  following  her 
with  looks  of  disapproval. 

163 


CHAPTER  XXV 

AFTER  THE  STORM 

WHEN  Keturah  came  out  of  the  church  she  found 
that  the  wind  had  fallen  and  the  rain  had  ceased.  The 
clouds  were  slowly  drifting  out  to  sea  and  the  sun  was 
drying  the  streets,  now  washed  and  clean. 

Keturah  did  not  turn  into  any  of  the  side  streets  and 
go  directly  home.  She  walked  down  Broadway,  her 
mind  busy  with  the  experience  of  the  morning.  She  was 
in  the  presence  of  a  new  and  great  thought.  God,  whom 
she  had  always  thought  of  with  fear  and  distress,  had 
suddenly  become  a  comfort  to  her.  Perhaps  her  father 
was  wrong;  perhaps  she  was  wrong;  God  did  not  hate 
her  father,  nor  her  mother,  nor  her  brother,  nor  all  the 
poor  and  the  miserable.  He  loved  them,  so  the  preacher 
of  the  morning  had  said,  more  than  he  loved  any  one  else. 
He  loved  them  because  they  needed  his  love.  That  was  a 
new  thought  in  the  heart  of  Keturah.  She  tried  to  hold 
it  fast  because  it  was  comfortable.  Back  behind  the 
thought  was  the  old  unbelief,  the  suspicion  that  it  might 
not  be  so.  She  did  not  dare  to  think  much  about  it.  She 
only  wanted  to  feel  it  for  the  present. 

Keturah  was  greatly  moved,  not  so  much  by  what 
she  had  heard,  as  by  the  kindness  and  sympathy  of  the 
preacher,  which  he  had  shown  in  every  word  and  act. 

165 


The  Greater  Love 

His  personality  made  a  powerful  appeal  to  hers.  He  was 
all  that  she  so  longed  to  be,  refined,  educated,  gentle  in 
manner  and  speech.  She  had  struggled  all  her  life  to 
keep  herself  above  the  level  of  her  surroundings.  She 
had  been  careful  of  her  speech  and  of  her  manners.  She 
felt  instinctively,  as  she  listened  to  Dr.  Suydam,  that  he 
was  naturally  and  easily  what  she  struggled  to  be. 
He  was  an  angel  standing  always  in  the  presence  of  that 
divine  culture  and  refinement  which  she  worshipped  from 
afar.  She  felt  also  that  if  she  could  have  him  for  a 
friend,  life  would  have  in  it  more  that  was  worth  the 
living. 

From  that  day  Keturah's  life  was  changed  by  the 
presence  of  a  new  thought,  and  by  contact  with  a  new 
personality. 

She  walked  down  Broadway  as  far  as  Bowling  Green, 
and  then,  suddenly  remembering  that  she  had  not  pro- 
vided the  Sunday  dinner,  she  made  haste  to  go  home. 
She  stopped  into  a  little  cook  shop  in  Chatham  Street  and 
bought  some  cold  ham  and  an  apple  pie  and  some  bread 
and  butter,  and  carried  it  to  her  waiting  household. 

To  all  questions  she  answered  simply  and  truthfully 
that  she  had  gone  out  in  the  morning  for  a  walk  and  had 
turned  into  Saint  Nicholas  church  to  get  out  of  the  storm, 
and  had  stayed  there  until  the  rain  was  over.  After  that 
she  had  gone  down  Broadway.  She  said  nothing  about 
the  experience  of  the  morning,  that  she  pondered  in  her 
heart. 

In  the  afternoon  she  went  upstairs,  and  finding  an 
old  Bible  of  her  mother's,  she  came  down  into  the  living 
room  and  opened  the  book  at  the  Gospel  of  Luke,  and 

166 


After  the  Storm 

began  to  read  the  story  of  the  passion.    Her  father  seeing 
her,  said :  "What  are  you  reading,  Keturah  ?" 

"I  am  reading,"  she  said,  "the  sorrowful  death  of  a 
good  man." 


167 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

ADORNED  FOR  THE  SACRIFICE 

COMMENCEMENT  day  had  come  and  gone.  It  had  been 
for  Abigail  Bain  a  day  of  triumph  and  a  day  of  delight. 
She  was  dressed  as  well  as  any  girl  upon  the  platform, 
and  was  by  far  the  most  beautiful  among  them.  She 
spoke  the  words  of  her  Latin  Salutatory  in  a  girlish,  sing- 
song way  that  was  charming  to  hear.  In  English,  her 
method  would  have  been  bad,  but  in  Latin  it  was  the  very 
thing ;  she  seemed,  as  she  stood  there,  repeating  her  Latin 
phrases  with  rising  and  falling  cadence,  like  some  ancient 
priestess  of  beauty,  chanting  the  praises  of  loveliness. 

The  people  did  not  understand  what  she  was  saying, 
but  they  did  see  what  she  was,  and  she  went  to  her  seat 
followed  by  a  storm  of  applause. 

As  she  sat  down  she  was  handed  a  great  cluster  of 
roses.  Keturah  had  brought  them,  being  determined  that 
nothing  should  be  wanting  that  day  to  complete  the  glory 
and  the  pleasure  of  her  sister.  The  elder  sister  saw  in 
the  younger,  as  she  stood  there  in  the  midst  of  educated 
and  refined  people,  herself  educated  and  refined,  the  ful- 
fillment of  a  long  cherished  desire,  the  accomplishment 
of  a  self-imposed  duty.  Abigail  was  educated  above  the 
level  of  the  shop. 

The  young  girl,  in  her  pale  blue  dress,  made  a  picture, 

169 


The  Greater  Love 

as  she  sat  at  the  end  of  the  row,  far  out  on  the  stage,  and 
many  eyes  were  turned  toward  her  in  admiration,  at 
which  Keturah  rejoiced  and  felt  like  crying  out  and  say- 
ing, "She  is  my  sister." 

After  commencement,  Abigail  found  her  life  at  home 
very  dreary.  She  spent  as  much  of  her  time  away  from 
it  as  she  could.  She  had  school  friends  who  lived  in  the 
upper  part  of  the  city,  and  she  visited  them,  or  else  she 
put  on  her  blue  gown,  when  the  day  was  fair,  and  went 
up  on  the  avenues,  into  picture  stores  and  into  shops, 
looked  at  all  the  lovely  things  to  be  had  for  money,  and 
longed  to  have  them  for  her  own,  repining  at  her  poverty 
and  her  mean  estate.  Leaving  the  stores,  she  wandered 
off  into  the  park,  and  sitting  down,  dreamed  the  day- 
dreams of  a  girl  full  of  life  and  without  experience. 

She  enjoyed  her  freedom,  coming  as  it  did  after  a 
long  period  of  confinement  in  school.  What  to  do  with 
that  freedom  she  did  not  know  exactly,  but  she  prized  it 
all  the  more  on  that  account.  She  hated  the  thought  of 
going  back  to  school  as  a  teacher,  but  that  was  some 
months  away  and  she  tried  not  to  think  about  it.  She 
basked  in  the  sun  while  the  sun  was  shining,  without 
troubling  herself  for  the  moment  about  what  was  to 
come. 

A  few  Sundays  after  her  graduation,  Abigail  put  on 
her  blue  dress  and  her  pretty  new  hat  and  her  gloves  and 
went  out  in  the  morning  to  go  somewhere  to  church. 
She  followed  the  way  that  Keturah  had  gone  the  day  of 
the  great  storm,  and  came  to  the  front  of  Saint  Nicholas. 
There  was  no  storm  to  drive  Abigail  into  the  church. 
It  was  a  perfect  day  in  June.  The  sun  was  shining,  the 
birds  were  singing,  and  the  flowers  were  blooming  above 
the  graves;  well-dressed  people  were  thronging  into  the 

170 


Adorned  For  the  Sacrifice 

church  door.  Attracted  by  the  life  and  the  rustle,  Abi- 
gail turned  aside  and  followed  the  crowd  into  the  church. 

It  was  a  great  day  in  Saint  Nicholas.  The  Dean  of 
Westminster  was  going  to  preach.  Keturah  had  come 
to  the  church  earlier  in  the  day,  and  hearing  that  a 
stranger  was  to  preach  did  not  care  to  stay,  but  had  gone 
away  to  have  a  long  day  by  herself  in  the  park. 

Abigail  did  not  know  who  was  going  to  preach  and 
did  not  care;  what  she  enjoyed  was  the  people.  To  be 
one  of  a  well-dressed  company  satisfied  the  deepest  crav- 
ing of  her  heart. 

As  she  entered  the  church,  the  crowd  gave  way,  sup- 
posing her  to  be  a  regular  member  of  the  parish.  When 
she  reached  the  foot  of  the  aisle  she  stopped,  not  know- 
ing where  to  go.  As  she  was  standing  and  waiting,  a 
young  man  came  that  way  and  stopping  beside  her,  looked 
at  her  with  undisguised  pleasure.  After  gazing  a  mo- 
ment at  her  face,  until  she  dropped  her  eyes  in  confusion, 
he  stepped  to  her  side  and  said  softly,  "Do  you  wish  a 
seat?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  she. 

"Come  with  me,"  said  he,  and  taking  her  up  near  to  the 
front  of  the  church,  he  showed  her  into  a  pew  and  fol- 
lowed her. 

Abigail  was  not  conscious  that  morning  of  anything 
but  the  presence  beside  her.  She  heard  the  music  and  she 
heard  the  sermon,  but  she  did  not  feel  the  one  or  listen 
to  the  other.  She  felt  nothing  but  the  sidelong  glances 
of  admiration  that  swept  up  and  down  the  graceful  lines 
of  her  person,  and  she  listened  only  to  the  beatings  of 
her  own  heart. 

When  the  stranger  handed  her  a  prayer  book  and  his 
fingers  touched  hers,  it  sent  a  thrill  to  her  soul.  Seeing 

171 


The  Greater  Love 

the  people  kneeling  in  prayer,  Abigail  knelt  also,  and  the 
young  man  followed  her  example,  and  kneeling  closer 
than  the  space  at  his  command  required,  the  girl  was 
overcome  by  a  strange  sensation  and  rose  hastily  and 
leaned  her  head  upon  her  hand. 

After  the  service  was  over  the  young  man  opened  the 
door  of  the  pew  and  stood  waiting  for  Abigail  to  pass 
out.  As  she  did  so  he  walked  beside  her  down  the  aisle 
out  into  the  street. 

As  she  was  turning  away  Abigail  looked  at  him  shyly, 
and  said :  "I  thank  you  very  much  for  giving  me  a  seat." 

"You  are  quite  welcome,  I  am  sure,"  said  he.  "Did 
you  enjoy  the  service?" 

"Oh,  yes,  indeed,"  said  she,  "it  was  beautiful." 

"Great  sermon,"  said  he. 

"Very,"  said  she. 

"Do  you  often  come  to  Saint  Nicholas?" 

"Not  very  often;  only  sometimes." 

"Not  a  member?" 

"No." 

"I  don't  come  every  Sunday,"  said  the  young  man, 
"but  I  belong  here.  That  was  my  seat.  I  should  be 
happy  to  have  you  use  it  whenever  you  wish." 

"Oh,  thank  you,"  said  Abigail,  "you  are  very  kind." 

"Will  you  come  again  ?"  said  the  man,  anxiously. 

"Yes,"  said  Abigail. 

"When?    Next  Sunday?" 

"Yes,  next  Sunday." 

"Here  is  my  card.  Give  it  to  the  usher  and  tell  him 
to  show  you  to  my  seat.  I  am  glad  to  have  met  you. 
Shall  be  happy  to  meet  you  again." 

"Good-day,"  said  Abigail. 

"Good-day,"  said  the  young  man. 

172 


Adorned  For  the  Sacrifice 

Abigail  took  the  card  that  was  given  her  and  crushed 
it  in  her  hand  without  reading  it.  She  turned  away  in  a 
flutter  of  embarrassment  and  went  down  the  street,  her 
heart  beating  and  her  cheeks  burning. 


173 


CHAPTER  XXVII 
A  BOY'S  PASSION 

AFTER  Shinar's  arrest  Keturah  determined  that  he 
should  not  stay  any  longer  in  the  city.  She  was  sure  that 
he  had  in  him  the  making  of  a  man  if  he  only  had  the 
chance,  and  she  said  that  he  should  have  it.  Whenever 
Keturah  had  a  will  she  always  found  a  way.  So  she  had 
seen  Mr.  Best,  the  locating  agent  of  the  Children's  Aid 
Society,  and  he  had  found  a  situation  for  Shinar  with  a 
farmer  in  Wayne  County,  New  York.  This  had  been 
Keturah's  desire.  She  did  not  wish  the  boy  to  go  to  the 
far  West. 

It  was  in  the  contract  that  the  lad  was  to  have  a  cer- 
tain number  of  hours  at  school,  during  his  time  of  service, 
and  he  was  to  serve  for  four  years,  or  until  he  was 
twenty-one  years  old.  Then,  being  a  man,  he  was  to  be 
at  liberty  to  make  his  own  contracts  and  care  for  himself. 

Keturah's  main  thought  was  to  get  him  away  from 
the  street  and  its  associations,  and  give  him  time  to  forget 
its  language  and  its  ways.  The  boy  himself  was  willing 
enough  to  go.  He  felt  the  stirrings  of  manhood  and 
wanted  to  be  something  beside  a  boot-black,  a  waiter,  or  a 
porter.  His  whole  appearance  indicated  that  he  had  good 
blood  in  his  veins  and  that  blood  was  speaking  and  urging 
him  on  into  higher  walks  of  life.  Consequently,  he  yielded 


The  Greater  Love 

a  ready  assent  to  the  plans  of  his  foster  mother.  He  did 
not  mean  to  live  in  the  country  always ;  he  meant  to  stay 
there  only  until  he  was  ready  to  come  back  and  be  a  man 
in  the  city. 

Shinar  still  lived  with  Mother  Magrath,  and  con- 
sidered himself  as  her  sole  support;  hence  before  he 
could  go  away  it  was  necessary  that  some  provision  be 
made  for  her.  Keturah  had  her  own  thoughts  about  this 
matter.  She  knew  that  Mother  Magrath  was  not  as  poor 
as  she  seemed.  She  was  certain  that  the  old  woman  had 
laid  by  enough  in  the  bank  to  keep  her  in  comfort  until 
Shinar  should  be  ready  to  take  care  of  her  again. 

One  evening  Keturah  went  over  to  the  Magrath  cabin 
to  talk  with  the  mother  about  sending  Shinar  away.  The 
place  where  Shinar  lived  was  indeed  a  cabin.  For,  as 
Joshua  Bain  had  built  his  home  in  the  likeness  of  a  New 
England  cottage,  so  had  Paddy  Magrath  made  his  after 
the  fashion  of  an  Irish  cabin.  The  low  walls,  the  high- 
pitched  roof,  the  small  windows  and  the  sunken  floor 
suggested  at  once  the  bog,  the  pig,  the  pipe  and  the 
potato. 

The  inside  of  the  cabin  was  even  more  indicative  of 
the  race  of  its  builders  than  the  outside.  The  rafters  of 
the  roof  were  unhewn  and  unpainted,  the  floor  of  the 
cabin  was  of  earth  and  was  littered  with  straw.  There 
were  only  two  rooms  in  the  house,  the  living  room  and 
the  nursery.  This  last  had  been  the  home  of  the  babies 
in  the  days  of  baby  farming,  but  for  years  past  had  been 
occupied  by  the  boy,  Shinar. 

It  was  that  wonderful  migration  of  peoples  from  all 
lands  to  the  new  world,  which  occurred  in  the  early  years 
of  the  last  century,  that  set  the  rough  cabin  of  the  Ma- 
graths  beside  the  prim  cottage  of  the  Bains.  And  it  was 


A  Boy's  Passion 

the  pressure  of  the  growing  city  that  had  forced  both 
cottage  and  cabin  out  of  the  light  of  the  street  into  the 
darkness  of  the  court. 

Keturah  found  Mother  Magrath  sitting  before  the  fire 
with  a  pot  of  potatoes  on  the  boil,  crooning  an  old  Irish 
song  and  rocking  herself  to  and  fro  to  the  measure  of  the 
music. 

"Good  evening,  mother,"  said  Keturah,  sitting  down 
on  a  stool  beside  the  little  old  woman  and  brushing  her 
gray,  straggling  hair  out  of  her  eyes.  "I  have  come  over 
to  talk  to  you  about  Shinar." 

"And  phwat  had  the  lazy  spalpeen  been  a-doin'  now, 
bad  cess  to  'im.  Has  the  cops  got  'im  agin  ?" 

"No,  mother,  the  cops  haven't  got  him,  and  we  must 
send  him  away  where  the  cops  can't  get  him." 

"Oh,  Keturah,  mavourneen,  phwat  has  the  bye  been 
a-doin'  that  ye  ud  be  sindin'  'im  away  from  his  old  mither  ? 
Is  it  murther?" 

"No,  mother,  it  isn't  murder,"  said  Keturah,  laughing, 
"but  you  know  Shinar  is  growing  to  be  a  man  now,  and 
he  must  give  up  his  boot-blacking  stand,  and  go  away  into 
the  country,  and  learn  something  beside  street  work  and 
street  talk." 

"In  the  counthry,  did  ye  say  ?  And  phwat  'ill  the  likes 
o'  him  be  doin'  in  the  counthry,  as  can't  be  afther  tellin' 
the  differ  between  a  pig  and  a  pertater?" 

"Just  so,  mother,"  said  Keturah  laughing  more 
heartily,  "just  so,  we  want  him  to  learn  the  difference 
between  a  pig  and  a  potato." 

"And  f er  phwat  'ill  he  be  afther  knowin'  that  ?" 

"So  that  he  can  buy  and  sell  pigs  and  potatoes  if  he 
wants  to." 

"And  ye'll  be  afther  havin'  the  bye  lave  his  old  mither 

177 


The  Greater  Love 

to  die  o'  starvation?  Oh,  Keturah,  darlint,  ye'll  not  be 
afther  bein'  so  cruel  as  all  that,  and  me  bein'  takin'  care  o' 
the  bye  and  givin'  him  his  sup  and  his  lodge  sin'  he  was  a 
babby.  Ye'll  not  be  takin'  'im  away  now,  not  at  all." 

"But  I  will  be  here,  mother,  to  look  after  you,  and  you 
know  you  have  money  in  the  bank  to  take  care  of  you  'till 
Shinar  comes  back  again." 

"Money  in  the  bank!"  cried  the  old  woman,  her  eyes 
gleaming  with  suspicion,  "who  ud  be  tellin'  you  I'd  money 
in  the  bank?" 

"Oh,  I  know  it,  mother.  I've  seen  you  go  in  the 
Broadway  Savings  Bank,  and  you  know  you  wouldn't  go 
there  unless  you  had  money  to  put  in  the  bank,  or  else 
wanted  to  draw  some  out." 

"Oh,  ye  spyin',  lyin'  chit !"  cried  the  woman,  rising  up 
and  shaking  herself  loose  from  Keturah's  hand.  "Fer 
phwat  are  ye  puttin'  yer  nose  that  it  don't  belong  at  all, 
at  all,  and  me  havin'  a  few  pinnies  saved  out  o'  me  hard 
earnin's  to  pay  fer  me  buryin'  and  ter  buy  a  mass  fer  me 
poor  ould  sowl.  And  ye  be  talkin'  o'  me  havin'  money  in 
the  bank ;  bad  cess  to  ye !" 

"Come,  come,  Mother  Magrath,"  said  Keturah,  "don't 
get  angry.  You  have  money  in  the  bank  and  you  must 
use  it  to  buy  bread  with,  that  is  better  than  masses.  When 
you  are  dead  somebody  will  bury  you  and  God  will  take 
care  of  your  soul." 

"Oh,  yis,  that  phwats  ye  say,  ye  unbelavin'  prode- 
shan,  there  '11  be  no  praste  sprinklin'  ye  wid  holy  wather, 
and  ye'll  be  afther  needin'  it,  ye  will,  whin  the  divil  gits 

ye." 

"Come,  mother,"  said  Keturah,  soothingly,  "we  wont 
quarrel  the  night  before  Shinar  is  going  away.  You  shall 
have  your  masses  if  you  want  them.  I  will  see  to  that  and 

178 


A  Boy's  Passion 

so  will  Shinar.    Come  now,  we  both  love  the  boy.    Let  us 
send  him  away  in  peace." 

At  this  the  old  woman  sat  down  and  began  to  croon 
and  to  cry.  "Oh,  me  bye,  me  bye,  the  last  o'  me  childer. 
The  babbies  is  dead  ivry  one,  only  this,  and  they  be  afther 
takin'  ye  away  and  lavin'  yer  mither  widout  chick  er 
child  to  spake  a  word  to  her  whin  she's  dyin'.  Ochone, 
me  darlint,  ochone." 

Paying  no  more  attention  to  Keturah,  the  old  woman 
got  up  and  went  and  sat  on  the  cabin  floor,  close  to  the 
fire  and  put  her  head  between  her  hands,  and  her  elbows 
on  her  knees,  and  sat  swaying  to  and  fro,  lifting  her  voice 
after  the  manner  of  the  wailing  woman  at  a  wake. 

Keturah  tried  to  comfort  her,  but  she  would  not  be 
comforted  and  wailed  louder  and  louder,  so  that  Keturah 
thought  it  best  to  leave  her  alone. 

Going  home,  she  found  Shinar  standing  in  the  hallway 
talking  with  Abigail.  The  boy  as  he  stood  there,  dressed 
in  his  Sunday  best,  was  the  peer  of  the  girl  beside  him. 
Nearly  as  tall  as  she,  his  dark  hair  and  rich  color  con- 
trasted well  with  her  pale,  golden  beauty.  Seeing  them 
together  one  would  say,  "There  is  a  handsome  couple." 

Shinar  had  been  in  to  say  good-bye  to  the  family,  and 
just  before  Keturah  came,  had  met  Abigail  in  the  hall  and 
was  trying  to  say  good-bye  to  her.  But  it  was  hard  work. 
For  Abigail  he  had  that  first  passion  which  comes  to  a 
boy  in  his  teens  and  sweeps  him  out  of  boyhood  into  man- 
hood. 

"You'll  be  fergettin!  me,  Abigail,  as  soon  as  I'm 
gone,"  said  the  boy,  wistfully. 

"No,  I'll  not  forget  you,  Shinar.  Why  should  I?" 
said  the  girl. 

"Oh,  there'll  be  so  many  comin'  to  see  you  that  you 
wont  have  no  time  to  think  o'  me,"  said  he,  sadly. 

179 


The  Greater  Love 

"Oh,  yes,  I  will,"  said  the  girl,  lightly,"  "I  will  think  of 
you  often  enough.  Even  if  I  were  to  try  to  forget  you, 
Keturah  wouldn't  let  me.  She  will  talk  about  you  enough 
to  keep  me  in  mind.  You  may  be  sure  of  that." 

These  words  gave  some  comfort  to  the  forlorn  youth. 
He  knew  they  were  true.  Keturah  would  talk  about  him, 
and  Abigail  could  not  forget  him  altogether,  there  was 
something  in  that,  but  it  was  not  enough,  and  so  he  added  : 
"But  you'll  not  be  thinkin'  o'  me  as  I'll  be  thinkin'  o'  you." 

"How  is  that  ?"  said  the  girl,  absently. 

"Why,  I'll  be  thinkin'  o'  you  all  day  and  dreamin'  o' 
you  all  night,  and  be  savin'  to  meself,  maybe  when  I  go 
back  to  the  city,  a  man  as  is  a  man,  and  not  a  wharf  rat, 
maybe  Abigail  'ull  think  o'  me  then  as  I  think  o'  her, 
maybe  she  will." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Shinar?  I  think  of  you  now  just 
as  I  always  have  and  always  will.  Your  going  away 
wont  make  any  difference  nor  your  coming  back." 

"It  wont?"  said  the  boy,  choking. 

"No,"  said  the  girl,  "I  guess  not." 

"You'll  allers  think  o'  me  as  a  boot-black  ?  I  couldn't 
do  nothin'  to  make  you  think  o'  me  as  a  man  as  might  say 
to  you  sometime :  'Abigail,  I'm  earnin'  good  wages  now, 
wont  you  come  wid  me  and  be  my  wife  ?' "  The  boy 
blushed  crimson  to  the  roots  of  his  hair  as  he  made  this 
declaration. 

Abigail  laughed  loud  and  long  and  said :  "You  fool- 
ish boy,  I'm  ever  so  much  older  than  you  are.  Do  you 
think  I  want  to  marry  a  baby  ?"  and  she  turned  her  head, 
scornfully. 

"Oh,  I  knew  you  wouldn't,  Abigail,  that's  what  I  said. 
You'll  forget  me  as  soon  as  I  am  gone,  and  I'm  goin'  ter- 
morror.  Maybe,  Abigail,  if  I'm  nothin'  but  a  baby  you 

1 80 


A  Boy's  Passion 

wouldn't  mind  kissin'  me  jest  once  before  I  go.  There 
aint  no  harm  in  kissin'  a  baby,  you  know." 

Without  saying  a  word  the  girl  turned  her  cheek  to  the 
boy  and  he  kissed  her,  knowing,  novice  as  he  was  in  mat- 
ters of  love,  that  when  a  girl  gives  her  cheek  she  gives 
nothing  else.  This  is  not  the  kiss  of  love  or  even  of 
friendship;  it  is  the  kiss  of  indifference. 

With  this  poor  crumb  of  comfort  the  boy  had  to  be 
content,  for  just  then  Keturah  came  in  and  Abigail  went 
away. 

The  next  day  Shinar  left  the  city  for  his  country  home, 
and  there  in  the  long,  lonely  days  and  the  still  longer  and 
more  lonely  nights  he  dreamed  of  golden  hair  and  blue 
eyes  which  could  never  be  his  except  in  dreams. 


181 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

TOO  LATE 

"I  AM  sorry,  Abigail,  to  tell  you  that  the  last  train  has 
left  for  the  city.  We  stayed  a  little  too  long  down  on  the 
beach  and  are  five  minutes  too  late." 

"Oh,  Robert,  whatever  will  we  do?" 

"Do,  my  dear  ?  Why,  the  only  thing  we  can.  We  will 
stay  here  over  night  and  go  up  to  the  city  in  the  morning." 

"But,  Robert  I  cannot  do  that.    Indeed,  I  cannot." 

"Why,  my  dear  girl,  you  must  do  it.  There  is  nothing 
else  for  you  to  do,  unless  we  were  to  walk  to  the  city,  and 
that  you  know  is  impossible." 

"What  will  Keturah  say?"  cried  the  girl  in  tones  of 
distress,  tears  gathering  in  her  eyes  and  falling  slowly 
down  her  cheeks. 

"There,  there,  don't  cry.  It  can't  be  helped,  you  know. 
You  can  tell  your  sister  that  you  stayed  over  night  with 
some  friend  of  yours  uptown." 

"But,  Robert,  what  will  I  do  to-night?" 

The  young  man  laughed  and  said :  "Why,  stay  here, 
of  course.  This  is  the  Brighton  Beach  Hotel,  and  it  is 
the  business  of  the  house  to  have  rooms  for  wayfarers 
such  as  we  are.  You  wait  here  and  I  will  go  and  see 
about  the  rooms  now." 

The  speakers  in  this  dialogue  were  Abigail  Bain  and 

183 


The  Greater  Love 

the  young  man  whom  she  had  met  in  Saint  Nicholas 
Church.  That  meeting  had  ripened  into  an  intimacy,  and 
it  was  "Robert"  and  "Abigail,"  and  "my  dear  girl"  with 
them.  The  Sunday  after  the  first  meeting  Abigail  went 
again  to  Saint  Nicholas  Church.  She  showed  the  usher 
the  card  which  the  young  man  had  given  her.  The  seat 
was  empty  and  remained  so  throughout  the  service. 
Abigail  heard  nothing  and  felt  nothing  of  what  was  going 
on.  Her  mind  and  heart  were  preoccupied.  She  said  to 
herself,  "Will  he  come?"  and  her  spirits  sank  within  her 
when  the  service  was  over  and  he  had  not  come. 

She  rose  from  her  seat  with  a  lump  in  her  throat,  and 
was  hardly  able  to  keep  back  the  tears.  In  the  vestibule 
she  met  Keturah,  who  had  been  up  in  the  gallery  listen- 
ing to  Dr.  Suydam  preach.  Keturah  had  seen  Abigail 
when  she  was  shown  into  her  seat  and  had  wondered  at 
her  being  there.  When  Keturah  had  left  home  Abigail 
was  in  bed.  She  had  never  to  her  sister's  knowledge  been 
interested  in  Saint  Nicholas  Church,  and  Keturah  could 
not  make  out  why  she  was  there.  But  Keturah  did  not 
worry  long  over  the  matter.  She  was  glad  to  see  Abigail 
down  among  the  fashionable  people  from  up  town.  It 
was  her  natural  place,  where  she  ought  to  be,  and  where 
she  should  be. 

On  these  bright  Sundays  when  the  church  was  full  of 
richly  dressed  people,  whose  coachmen  and  footmen  were 
waiting  on  the  carriages  outside,  Keturah  did  not  find  the 
same  strength  and  comfort  which  she  had  found  on  the 
day  of  the  storm,  when  the  church  was  dark  and  cold  and 
empty.  She  did  not  know  exactly  what  made  the  differ- 
ence, but  there  was  a  difference.  The  music,  while  equally 
beautiful,  was  not  so  moving.  It  was  no  longer  an  un- 
conscious voice  singing  for  its  own  delight  the  praises  of 

184 


Too  Late 

Him  who  gave  it.  It  was  now  a  conscious  voice  singing 
to  please  the  people. 

And  the  preaching  was  different  also.  Keturah  did 
not  venture  down  on  the  floor  of  the  church,  but  went  up 
into  the  gallery  near  the  pulpit  where  she  could  see  the 
speaker.  From  this  point  of  view  she  gained  a  new  con- 
ception of  the  preacher.  Dr.  Suydam  seemed  to  her  less 
the  messenger  of  God,  and  more  a  simple  man.  She  still 
enjoyed  his  preaching.  Its  clearness  of  thought,  its  sim- 
plicity of  language  and  the  tenderness  and  earnestness  of 
its  tone  appealed  to  her  intelligence  and  to  her  heart.  If 
she  had  not  believed  a  word  that  he  said  she  would  have 
still  listened  to  him  with  delight.  He  gratified  her  crav- 
ing for  refinement  of  thought  and  delicacy  of  feeling. 
His  preaching  was  so  different  from  the  preaching  which 
she  had  heard  in  the  mission  chapels  with  its  coarse  abuse 
of  human  nature  and  its  crude  statements  of  the  divine 
nature  and  the  divine  purpose.  This  preaching  had  dis- 
gusted her  and  driven  her  away  from  all  thought  of  God 
and  all  care  for  religion.  But  with  Dr.  Suydam  it  was 
just  the  other  way.  He  made  the  thought  of  God  attrac- 
tive and  religion  desirable.  She  wanted  always  to  believe 
what  he  said.  His  God  she  wanted  for  her  God,  and  his 
hope  for  her  hope.  It  was  hard  for  her,  with  her  experi- 
ence in  life,  to  believe  in  any  such  God  as  Dr.  Suydam 
preached,  but  she  wanted  to  believe  it.  Her  faith  trembled 
constantly  between  hope  and  despair. 

When  she  had  listened  to  Dr.  Suydam  a  few  times 
from  her  place  of  vantage  in  the  gallery  a  feeling  of  pity 
began  to  mingle  with  her  reverence  for  him.  She  detected 
a  constraint  in  his  manner  and  a  sadness  in  his  voice 
which  told  of  a  mind  ill  at  ease  and  a  heart  out  of  tune. 
He  did  not  seem  to  enjoy  his  preaching  as  he  did  on  the 

185 


The  Greater  Love 

day  when  she  first  heard  him.  The  ring  of  sincerity 
which  had  filled  the  whole  church  with  the  voice  of  truth 
on  the  day  of  the  storm  seemed  wanting  in  these  days  of 
light. 

And  when  Keturah  looked  down  at  the  people,  she 
caught  a  glimmering  of  the  cause  of  this  change  in  the 
preacher.  He  was  preaching  to  a  people  who  did  not  care. 
When  he  had  set  forth  some  truth  of  the  Gospel  of  Christ, 
with  a  clearness  that  must  convince  the  understanding, 
and  with  a  beauty  and  a  tenderness  that  ought  to  charm 
and  move  the  heart,  the  people  would  all  get  up  and  go 
away  as  if  nothing  had  been  said.  They  would,  indeed, 
speak  of  the  beauty  of  the  sermon  to  each  other  as  they 
passed  out  of  the  church.  But  they  spoke  in  a  light  way, 
as  they  might  speak  of  a  singer  at  a  concert,  as  if  it  were 
the  purpose  of  a  sermon  to  please,  and  not  to  convince  or 
to  move.  When  Keturah  began  to  understand  all  this  her 
heart  was  moved  with  a  great  compassion  for  this  man  of 
mental  endowment  and  tender  heart,  who  went  week  after 
week  up  into  his  high  pulpit  and  exercised  his  gifts  to  no 
purpose.  The  futility  of  his  work  drew  Keturah  to  him 
as  not  even  his  preaching  had  done. 

When  she  came  down  out  of  the  gallery  on  the  Sunday 
morning  of  which  we  are  writing,  her  heart  was  full  of 
sadness,  and  she  went  out  of  the  church  with  a  feeling  of 
relief.  The  God  of  the  great  world,  in  which  she  lived 
and  worked,  might  not  be  so  tender  nor  so  beautiful  as 
the  God  who  was  preached  in  the  church ;  but  He  was  real, 
He  did  something.  He  made  people  believe  in  Him,  if 
by  nothing  else  yet  by  pain  and  sorrow ;  but  as  for  this 
God  and  Saviour,  who  was  preached  in  the  church,  He 
did  nothing  and  nobody  cared  for  Him  at  all. 

As  Keturah  passed  out  of  the  church,  musing  sadly 

186 


Too  Late 

on  these  things,  she  lifted  up  her  eyes  and  saw  Abigail 
standing  in  the  church  porch  talking  to  a  young  man. 
She  swept  the  young  man  up  and  down  with  a  look  that 
would  read  him  through  and  through.  As  soon  as  she 
saw  him  she  was  afraid  of  him.  She  walked  slowly  down 
the  steps  into  the  street,  and  by-and-by  her  sister  joined 
her.  As  they  walked  home  together  Keturah  said  to 
Abigail:  "Who  was  that  young  man  speaking  with  you 
on  the  porch  of  the  church  ?" 

Abigail  hesitated  a  moment  and  then  said:  "I  don't 
know  exactly  who  he  is,  only  he  is  a  friend  of  Philip 
Schuyler."  Now,  this  was  said  at  a  venture.  Philip 
Schuyler  had  been  Abigail's  classmate  in  the  Normal 
College  and  a  friend  of  his  might  well  be  her  acquaint- 
ance; unwittingly  she  had  spoken  the  truth.  The  young 
man  was  an  intimate  friend  of  Philip  Schuyler.  Abigail, 
however,  had  spoken  not  knowing  the  truth,  with  the 
quick  intuition  of  a  woman  who  wishes  to  cover  an  em- 
barrassing situation. 

"How  did  you  come  to  know  him  ?"  asked  Keturah. 

"Oh,  Philip  introduced  me,"  said  Abigail,  adding  the 
lie  direct  to  the  lie  indirect.  Abigail  did  not  mean  to  lie, 
she  simply  wanted  to  satisfy  Keturah  that  her  acquaint- 
ance with  the  young  man  was  a  proper  acquaintance.  She 
had  not  planned  the  conversation  with  her  sister,  it  just 
made  itself  as  it  went  along,  and  it  served  its  purpose.  It 
did  satisfy  Keturah.  For  it  is  an  unwritten  law  of  Ameri- 
can life  that  the  formal  introduction  of  any  woman  to 
any  man  by  any  third  party  makes  their  acquaintance 
legitimate,  and  the  proper  basis  of  any  intimacy  that  may 
follow. 

So  Keturah  simply  said :    "Well,  I  suppose  that  it  is 
all  right,  but  I  don't  like  his  looks.     I  hope  you  will  be 
careful." 
*-  187 


The  Greater  Love 

"Oh,  yes,  I  will  be  careful,"  said  Abigail,  and  the  sub- 
ject was  dropped. 

Before  leaving  the  porch  that  morning,  Abigail  had 
halfway  promised  that  she  would  be  in  Union  Square, 
at  the  Fountain  that  afternoon,  at  three  o'clock,  to  meet 
her  new  acquaintance.  She  left  her  home  immediately 
after  dinner,  thinking  she  would  go  and  visit  her  friend, 
Maggie  Howard,  in  Twentieth  Street,  and  so  told 
Keturah.  She  walked  up  Broadway  slowly  to  Maggie 
Howard's  house  and  up  the  steps  to  the  door.  She  rang 
the  bell  and  asked  if  Miss  Howard  was  at  home.  The 
servant  who  answered  the  bell  said  that  she  was  not.  She 
had  gone  to  Brooklyn  to  spend  the  day. 

Abigail  left  her  card  and  went  down  the  steps,  and 
walked  rapidly  down  Broadway,  and  turned  into  Union 
Square,  and  stood  watching  the  goldfish  in  the  fountain. 
She  had  not  waited  long  before  her  friend  of  the  morning 
came  up  and  lifted  his  hat,  saluted  her  and  said :  "It  is  a 
beautiful  afternoon,  would  you  like  a  drive  in  the  Park  ?" 

After  a  moment  of  hesitation,  Abigail  said,  "Yes." 

The  young  man  led  her  to  Seventeenth  Street,  where 
an  open  landau  was  standing,  a  coachman  was  on  the  seat 
and  a  groom  at  the  horses'  heads.  The  livery  was  of  a 
pale  blue  and  gold  and  exactly  matched  Abigail's  dress. 

"To  McAdam's,  through  the  Park,"  said  the  young 
man. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  coachman,  touching  his  hat. 

The  groom  gave  the  horses  their  heads  and  mounted 
to  the  seat  beside  the  coachman,  who  drove  through 
Seventeenth  Street  to  Fifth  Avenue,  and  up  the  avenue  to 
the  Park. 

That  drive  formed  an  epoch  in  the  life  of  Abigail  Bain. 
She  found  herself  rolling  through  the  Park  in  the  midst  of 

188 


Too  Late 

a  crush  of  carriages,  none  of  which  was  richer  than  the 
one  she  was  in.  From  time  to  time  her  companion  raised 
his  hat  to  the  finest  of  the  turn-outs  as  he  passed  them,  and 
by  and  by  as  he  did  so  she  bowed  her  head. 

The  girl  was  in  a  dream.  She  seemed  suddenly  lifted 
out  of  her  old  sordid  surroundings  into  the  world  of 
wealth  and  fashion.  It  had  all  come  to  pass  as  if  it  were 
a  fairy  tale.  Prince  Charming  had  come  and  taken  her  by 
the  hand  and  made  of  her  a  princess.  She  did  not  stop  to 
reason  about  it.  She  simply  let  herself  float  away  over  the 
sea  of  sensation  that  surrounded  her. 

Leaving  the  Park,  they  sped  up  the  roadway  to  the 
region  of  Washington  Heights  and  there,  at  the  famous 
McAdam  road-house,  they  were  served  such  a  dinner  as 
Abigail  had  never  eaten  before  in  her  life.  It  was  served 
in  a  private  room  with  flowers  and  wine. 

After  the  dinner  came  the  long  drive  home  through 
the  dark.  The  young  people  did  not  talk  much,  but  they 
felt  each  other's  presence  by  that  subtle  power  which 
Nature  uses  when  she  would  draw  youth  and  maiden 
together. 

Abigail  was  driven  to  22  West  Twentieth  Street,  the 
house  of  her  friend  Maggie  Howard,  and  finding  her  at 
home  spent  a  short  time  with  her,  telling  her  that  she  had 
been  out  driving  with  a  friend  of  Philip  Schuyler,  and 
then  leaving  Maggie's  house  hurried  to  Fourth  Avenue, 
and  took  the  cars  to  Chatham  Street,  and  so  to  her  home. 

To  Keturah  and  the  rest  she  said  she  had  spent  the 
afternoon  in  the  Park  and  the  evening  with  Maggie 
Howard. 

From  that  day  forward  Abigail  lived  in  her  dream  of 
luxury.  She  had  the  richest  of  food  and  the  choicest  of 
wine.  She  rode  in  her  carriage  with  the  coachman  to 

189 


The  Greater  Love 

drive,  and  the  footman  to  open  the  door.  She  had  her  box 
at  the  theatre  and  sailed  from  time  to  time  on  a  private 
yacht  down  the  bay  and  out  to  sea. 

So  the  summer  was  passing  away  and  the  young  girl 
was  enjoying  it  without  a  thought  of  the  future.  She  was 
treated  not  only  with  respect,  but  with  deference.  No 
wonder  that  she  dreamed  dreams  and  looked  forward  with 
joyful  anticipation.  She  loved  the  young  man  who  was 
so  kind  to  her,  and  he  evidently  loved  her.  To  her  that 
love  meant  only  one  thing.  She  was  to  be  his  forever,  his 
wife  and  the  mistress  of  his  house  and  fortune. 

No  definite  promises  had  been  given  or  received. 
Abigail  was  in  that  passionate  state  which  takes  love  for 
granted  and  yields  the  innocent  tokens  of  an  affection  of 
which  she  is  not  ashamed.  She  concealed  her  intimacy 
from  Keturah  and  the  family  more  from  pride  than  from 
fear.  In  her  new  life  she  was  growing  more  and  more 
disgusted  with  her  mean  surroundings  and  her  family 
connections.  She  was  hoping  for  the  day  to  come  quickly 
that  would  take  her  away  from  it  all.  She  said  to  herself : 
"When  I  am  married  I  will  help  Keturah  to  live  in  a  bet- 
ter place,  but  I  don't  suppose  I  will  be  able  to  see  much 
of  her  or  the  rest  of  them.  I  am  sure  Robert  would  not 
like  it." 

So  she  dreamed  her  dreams  and  made  her  plans  until 
that  night  in  August,  when  she  found  herself  with  Robert 
at  the  Brighton  Beach  Hotel  after  the  last  train  had  gone 
to  the  city. 

While  Robert  was  away  Abigail  sat  on  the  porch  of 
the  hotel,  watching  the  moonlight  on  the  sand,  and  listen- 
ing to  the  surf  beating  against  the  shore,  with  a  strange 
feeling  of  fear  in  her  heart.  It  suffocated  her  so  that  she 
could  not  breathe.  She  got  up  hastily  and  walked  to  the 

190 


Too  Late 

edge  of  the  porch  to  find  relief.  But  as  she  leaned  upon 
the  rail  and  looked  out  she  only  heard  more  clearly  the 
beating  of  the  surf,  and  she  was  the  more  afraid,  and  she 
wished  with  all  her  heart  that  she  were  at  home. 

She  was  roused  from  her  painful  revery  by  the  voice 
of  her  friend,  saying:  "Come,  Abigail,  it  is  all  right.  I 
have  taken  rooms.  We  will  have  a  little  supper,  and  then 
the  maid  will  show  you  to  your  room." 

When  she  turned  and  looked  at  him,  he  saw  that  she 
was  frightened.  "Come,  dear,"  he  said,  "come,  there  is 
nothing  to  be  afraid  of .  Let  us  go  to  supper."  And  taking 
her  by  the  hand  he  led  her  to  a  table  at  the  far  end  of  the 
porch,  overlooking  the  sea.  And  then  a  dainty  supper  was 
served ;  and  when  they  had  finished,  the  young  man  took 
the  girl  to  the  upper  floor  and  calling  the  maid  sent  her 
away  to  her  room,  saying :  "Good-night,  Abigail.  I  hope 
you  will  rest  well.  We  will  return  to  town  early  in  the 
morning." 

"Good  night,  Robert,"  said  Abigail  and  following  the 
maid,  she  went  to  her  room. 


191 


BOOK    SECOND 
v   » 

Dr.  Suydam 


CHAPTER  I 

DR.   SUYDAM 

WHEN  Dr.  Suydam  reached  home  on  the  Sunday 
morning  of  his  interview  with  Keturah  Bain  he  found  that 
he  was  late  for  luncheon.  Simmons,  the  butler,  who 
opened  the  door  for  him  told  him  that  "Mrs.  Suydam  and 
Master  Robert  and  Miss  Katherine  was  a-waitin'  for  him 
in  the  mornin'  room." 

"Tell  them  not  to  wait,"  said  Dr.  Suydam,  "I  will  be 
down  presently,"  and  handing  his  umbrella  to  the  butler 
he  passed  up  the  stairway  to  his  library.  The  home  of 
Dr.  Suydam  was  one  in  which  wealth  was  manifested  on 
every  side.  The  floor  of  the  hallway  was  a  rich  mosaic, 
overlaid  with  priceless  rugs ;  the  stairway  was  of  polished 
oak  with  mahogany  balustrade.  The  walls  of  the  hall  and 
the  stairway  were  covered  with  pictures  by  the  leading 
masters  of  the  world.  At  the  foot  of  the  stairway  was  a 
niche  containing  a  piece  of  statuary  by  Story,  and  at  the 
head  of  the  stairs  was  a  group  in  marble,  from  the  chisel 
of  Harriet  Hosmer.  The  library  into  which  Dr.  Suydam 
entered  was  a  noble  room,  the  full  width  of  the  house,  and 
running  back  thirty  feet.  It  was  lined  with  bookcases, 
extending  up  to  the  ceiling,  which  contained  one  of  the 
finest  private  libraries  in  the  city  of  New  York.  Dr.  Suy- 
dam was  a  lover  of  books  and  spared  neither  means  nor 


The  Greater  Love 

pains  to  secure  the  finest  editions  and  the  most  costly  bind- 
ings. His  library  contained  nothing  that  he  had  not  read. 

He  was,  as  his  appearance  indicated,  the  man  of  cul- 
ture. Dr.  Suydam  was  tall  and  slender;  his  head  was 
the  long  head  of  the  thinker  and  the  mystic ;  his  brow,  nar- 
row and  receding,  was  shaded  by  dark  brown  hair  in 
which  there  was  a  tinge  of  gray.  Being  short-sighted, 
Dr.  Suydam  was  never  without  his  glasses,  and  so  the 
power  of  his  eyes  was  in  a  measure  lost.  When  he  re- 
moved his  glasses  his  eyes  were  seen  to  be  weak  and 
watery,  showing  the  hard  wear  to  which  they  had  been 
subjected.  A  long,  thin  nose,  a  wide  mouth,  sensitive 
lips,  and  pointed  chin  gave  to  the  whole  face  a  delicate 
refinement,  and  showed  the  character  of  the  man  to  be 
strongly  emotional. 

Socially  Dr.  Suydam  was  a  Brahmin.  There  was  no 
social  rank  higher  than  his  in  the  city  of  New  York; 
none,  indeed,  higher  than  his  in  America,  coming  as  he 
did  from  the  old  Dutch  stock,  bearing  a  name  older  than 
the  city  itself.  Dr.  Suydam  was  an  aristocrat  by  inherit- 
ance as  well  as  by  training.  He  was  not  a  rich  man,  as  men 
were  even  then  counting  riches  in  the  city  of  New  York ; 
but  he  had  inherited  from  his  father,  who  had  died  in 
his  early  youth,  a  fortune  sufficient  to  support  him  in  the 
state  of  life  into  which  he  had  been  born.  His  mother  was 
the  daughter  of  a  successful  merchant,  and  her  fortune 
added  to  that  of  his  father  made  it  possible  for  him  to  live 
as  he  pleased. 

From  his  earliest  youth  he  had  been  a  student,  and  had 
been  allowed  to  follow  his  natural  inclination  without  let 
or  hindrance.  At  the  early  age  of  twenty  he  had  gradu- 
ated with  high  honors  from  Columbia  College,  and  turning 
from  the  noise  and  bustle  of  the  world  entered  the  min- 

196 


Dr.  Suydam 

istry  of  the  Episcopal  Church.  He  had  intended  to  devote 
himself  to  missionary  labors  in  heathen  lands ;  but  he  was 
the  only  son  of  his  mother,  and  she  besought  him  not  to 
leave  her  to  live  and  die  alone.  He  yielded  his  wishes  to 
her  prayers  and  accepted  temporarily,  as  he  thought,  a 
position  on  the  staff  of  Saint  Nicholas  Church. 

While  he  was  waiting  for  Providence  to  open  the  way 
for  him  to  preach  the  Gospel  in  foreign  parts,  he  preached 
the  Gospel  to  his  own  people.  And  as  the  years  went  by, 
and  still  he  could  not  go,  he  drifted  into  the  ways  and 
formed  the  habits  of  the  city  pastor,  ministering  to  a  rich 
and  fashionable  congregation. 

From  the  very  first  Dr.  Suydam  preached  the  Gospel 
rather  than  doctrines  based  on  the  Gospel.  His  sermons 
were  either  spiritual  or  practical.  He  was  chaste  yet 
fervid  in  his  style,  and  was  accustomed  to  throw  out  such 
strong  appeals  as  that  which  brought  Keturah  Bain  to  her 
feet. 

On  that  Sunday  morning  the  preacher,  utterly  uncon- 
scious of  himself,  had  simply  given  voice  to  the  great 
Gospel  of  Jesus  the  Christ. 

His  interview  with  Keturah  had  moved  him  deeply. 
He  felt  at  once  that  she  was  a  woman  widely  different 
from  those  who  usually  surrounded  him  after  his  preach- 
ing and  praised  his  sermons,  and  came  to  him  not  so  much 
to  seek  his  advice  as  to  indulge  in  the  luxury  of  spiritual 
emotion. 

His  experience  with  Keturah  Bain  had  been  a  fresh 
experience ;  it  had  brought  him  face  to  face  with  the  great 
realities  of  human  life,  its  sin,  its  sickness,  its  poverty  and 
degradation.  As  he  stood  in  the  midst  of  his  luxurious 
surroundings  there  came  into  his  heart  a  sad  dissatisfac- 
tion with  himself  and  his  work  in  the  world.  He  could 

197 


The  Greater  Love 

not  fail  to  contrast  his  preaching  with  his  life.  He  lived 
really  in  two  worlds.  He  believed  ardently  all  that  he 
preached  while  he  was  preaching.  That  life  of  high  en- 
deavor, of  self-sacrifice  and  personal  purity,  was  the  life 
which  he  had  chosen  for  his  own  in  the  days  of  his  youth. 
He  had  intended  to  make  of  himself  a  whole  burnt  offer- 
ing to  the  Lord.  That  inspiration  still  ruled  his  thinking 
and  his  feeling,  but  somehow  or  other  it  had  escaped  him 
in  practice.  When  he  came  down  out  of  his  pulpit  and 
had  entered  his  satin-lined  carriage,  and  was  driven  to  his 
elegant  home  on  the  avenue,  he  could  not  help  contrasting 
his  theory  with  his  practice.  In  theory  life  was  to  be  high, 
holy,  and  severe,  a  life  of  self-denial,  of  devotion  to  God 
and  man;  in  fact,  it  was  commonplace,  luxurious,  and 
self-indulgent. 

And  though  custom  had  habituated  Dr.  Suydam  to 
this  contrast,  yet  he  could  not  altogether  rid  himself  of  the 
painful  uneasiness  which  it  occasioned. 

And  on  this  day,  forgetting  his  lunch,  he  fell  into  a 
sad  reverie,  seeing  himself  as  he  was  and  as  he  might 
have  been. 

At  the  end  of  twelve  years  the  mother  of  Dr.  Suydam 
died,  and,  so  far  as  she  was  concerned,  he  was  at  liberty 
to  go  where  he  pleased,  but  then  it  was  too  late.  He  had 
married  a  wife  and  could  not  go. 


198 


CHAPTER  II 

AN  OMINOUS  COUGH 

THE  engagement  of  Dr.  Suydam  to  Mrs.  James  Bullet, 
known  to  New  York  as  the  Bullet  millions,  had  been  a 
nine  days'  wonder  in  social  circles.  The  popular  preacher 
had  reached  the  ripe  age  of  thirty-five  and  never  once,  so 
far  as  society  knew,  had  been  entangled  with  any  woman. 
Female  loveliness  had  spread  its  snares  before  him  in  vain. 
Devotees  lifted  their  soft  eyes  and  clasped  their  soft  hands 
in  ecstatic  worship  to  no  purpose.  The  heart  of  the 
young  preacher  was  hardened  against  every  appeal  of 
the  soft  emotions.  His  books,  his  work,  and  his  mother 
filled  up  for  him  the  measure  of  his  desires. 

When  society  had  made  up  its  mind  that  Jacob  Suy- 
dam never  would  marry,  and  womankind,  since  it  could 
not  have  him  for  a  lover,  was  beginning  to  worship  him 
as  a  saint,  then  all  of  a  sudden,  and  without  any  warning, 
the  idol  was  shattered  and  the  fair  dream  of  human  per- 
fection vanished. 

Dr.  Suydam  was  engaged  and  then  married. 

And,  of  all  women  in  the  world,  to  the  Bullet  millions ! 
To  a  woman  not  of  his  class ;  a  widow  with  two  children ; 
a  woman  at  least  five  years  older  than  the  man  who  was  to 
be  her  husband,  and  who,  ever  since  her  first  husband's 
death,  had  been  almost  brazen  in  her  efforts  to  force  her 
way  into  the  inner  circles  of  New  York  society. 

199 


The  Greater  Love 

Never  did  a  man  fall  so  fast  and  so  far  as  Dr.  Suydam 
fell  in  the  estimation  of  society,  when  his  engagement  was 
announced.  And  in  his  own  heart  he  joined  in  that  con- 
demnation which  was  pronounced  against  him  by  the 
world. 

He  never  could  think  of  his  engagement  and  marriage 
without  a  blush  of  shame.  He  had  never  meant  to  marry 
the  Widow  Bullet,  nor  any  other  woman,  and  least  of  all 
had  he  meant  to  do  it  on  the  morning  when  by  his  actions 
he  had  made  it  inevitable.  A  moment  of  weakness  be- 
trayed him  into  a  lifelong  mistake.  He  was  able  to  read 
in  his  own  life  the  sad  story  of  the  Fall  of  Man. 

The  Widow  Bullet  had  for  social  reasons  purchased  a 
pew  in  Saint  Nicholas  Church.  From  the  very  first  she 
'had  been  drawn  to  the  young  assistant  minister,  who  was 
a  high  priest  in  that  inner  circle  into  which  she  so  longed 
to  enter.  The  young  man  met  her  advances  with  that 
courtesy  which  was  natural  to  him,  and  she  in  return 
placed  herself  and  her  fortune  at  his  disposal.  She  was 
ready  to  further  his  slightest  wish  to  the  full  extent  of  her 
means. 

At  that  time  Dr.  Suydam  was  deeply  interested  in  a 
scheme  to  found  a  college  in  China.  His  interest  in  the 
foreign  field  was  all  the  greater  because  he  could  not  him- 
self enter  that  field.  He  did  not  find  many  to  think  as  he 
did.  Hard-headed  business  men  said,  "We  have  work 
enough  at  home,  let  England  take  care  of  China."  The 
close  of  the  war  had  made  the  education  and  evangeliza- 
tion of  the  negro  a  duty  nearer  to  the  heart  of  the  Ameri- 
can people  than  the  education  and  conversion  of  the 
Chinese.  So  poor  Dr.  Suydam  had  not  many  to  sympa- 
thize with  him  in  the  great  desire  of  his  heart. 

The  encouragement  and  the  help  of  Mrs.  Bullet  were 

200 


An  Ominous  Cough 

very  grateful  to  him.  One  day  she  came  to  see  him  by 
appointment  in  the  vestry  room  of  the  church.  He  was 
seated  at  his  table  and  she  came  and  sat  down  beside  him. 

Mrs.  Bullet  was,  in  her  way,  a  handsome  woman,  and 
she  was  in  all  the  glory  of  her  second  womanhood.  She 
was  an  Irish  woman  from  the  County  of  Munster.  Her 
form  was  tall  and  well  rounded,  her  light  hair  had  dark- 
ened with  age  until  it  was  like  burnished  copper.  Her 
gray  eyes  shaded  by  dark  lashes  gave  a  distinguished  ap- 
pearance to  her  countenance,  and  her  color,  a  rich  blend- 
ing of  red  and  white,  gave  her  all  the  power  and  fascina- 
tion of  a  full-blooded,  healthy  woman. 

As  she  seated  herself  she  said:  "I  have  come,  Dr. 
Suydam,  to  ask  how  much  you  need  to  finish  the  buildings 
of  the  college  in  China." 

"I  do  not  know  exactly,  Mrs.  Bullet,  but  I  am  afraid 
it  will  require  not  less  than  ten  thousand  dollars." 

"May  I  have  the  privilege  of  giving  that  amount,"  said 
the  lady,  "so  that  the  college  may  be  finished  at  once  and 
the  work  go  forward  ?" 

"Do  you  mean,  Mrs.  Bullet,  that  you  wish  to  give  the 
whole  of  the  ten  thousand  dollars  yourself  ?" 

"Certainly." 

"Why,  my  dear  madam,"  said  Dr.  Suydam,  "this  is 
princely,"  and  arising  he  gave  his  hand  to  Mrs.  Bullet. 
She,  rising  also,  placed  her  hand  in  his  and  came  close  to 
him  and  said :  "I  am  glad  to  do  it.  It  gives  me  the  great- 
est pleasure  to  help  you  in  any  way." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Bullet.  I  am  very  grateful, 
there  are  so  few  who  care  for  this  work.  I  am  thankful, 
not  only  for  the  money,  but  also  for  the  sympathy.  I  hope 
I  may  have  that  sympathy  always."  As  Dr.  Suydam 
spoke  he  still  held  the  hand  of  Mrs.  Bullet  in  his. 

201 


The  Greater  Love 

She,  drawing  nearer  to  him,  said :  "Dr.  Suydam,  it  is 
the  dearest  wish  of  my  heart  to  be  near  you  and  to  help 
you  always.  May  I  ?" 

Looking  down  Dr.  Suydam  saw  her  bosom  rise  and 
fall,  and  the  full  power  and  aroma  of  her  womanhood 
took  possession  of  him  and  scarcely  knowing  what  he  said 
or  did,  answered :  "Certainly,  Mrs.  Bullet,  certainly." 

"Oh,  how  happy  you  make  me !"  cried  the  widow,  and 
she  held  up  her  lips  to  be  kissed. 

Still  hardly  knowing  what  he  did,  Dr.  Suydam 
stooped  down  and  kissed  her. 

The  high  color  in  her  cheeks  deepened  into  purple  and 
her  gray  eyes  melted  into  tender  blue.  Without  stirring 
she  still  held  up  her  waiting  lips,  and  Dr.  Suydam  kissed 
her  the  second  time. 

Just  then  he  heard  an  ominous  cough  and  looking  up 
he  saw  the  sexton  standing  in  the  open  door. 

Dr.  Suydam,  flushing  to  the  roots  of  his  hair,  said: 
"Jenkins,  will  you  please  say  to  any  one  who  asks  you, 
that  I  am  to  marry  Mrs.  Bullet  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Jenkins,  and  he  went  away. 


202 


CHAPTER  III 

DOMESTICITY 

WHEN  Dr.  Suydam  married  the  widow  Bullet,  the 
women  fumed  and  the  men  laughed.  The  women  decried 
the  widow  for  the  artful,  scheming  creature  that  she  was, 
and  despised  Dr.  Suydam  for  yielding  to  her  wiles.  The 
men  shrugged  their  shoulders,  and  said  a  parson  was  just 
like  other  men  and  knew  a  good  thing  when  he  saw  it. 
Teddy  Schuyler  expressed  the  common  opinion  when  he 
said  the  Bullet  was  "a  fine  woman,  be  gad,  and  her  mil- 
lions were  millions,  and  that  was  all  there  was  of  it." 

After  his  marriage,  Dr.  Suydam  continued  to  officiate 
as  minister  of  Saint  Nicholas  Church,  and  in  a  short  time 
recovered  in  a  measure  his  popularity.  He  was  no  longer 
the  pet  and  darling  of  the  single  women  of  his  congrega- 
tion. In  many  a  chamber  his  picture  had  been  turned  to 
the  wall,  and  the  fair  devotee  who  used  to  pray  before  that 
picture  as  before  the  image  of  a  saint  went  prayerless  to 
bed. 

But  Dr.  Suydam  and  the  Bullet  millions,  once  joined 
together,  became  a  force  which  it  was  impossible  for  social 
New  York  to  ignore.  With  her  new  name,  Mrs.  Suydam 
took  her  new  place  and  held  it.  She  built  a  new  house  for 
herself  in  the  most  fashionable  part  of  the  city,  and  when 
she  opened  her  doors,  all  society  passed  through  those 

203 


The  Greater  Love 

doors  into  her  drawing-rooms,  and  she  became  at  once  one 
of  the  elect. 

And  yet  she  was  not  happy. 

The  clerical  position  of  her  husband  was  a  bar  to  her 
complete  social  success.  She  could  not  as  a  minister's  wife 
quite  keep  pace  with  the  lay  members  of  the  congregation. 
She  was  invited  to  the  more  formal  and  stately  entertain- 
ments, such  as  dinners  and  the  like ;  but  she  was  not  ex- 
pected to  be  present  at  the  masked  balls  and  wilder 
gayeties  of  the  social  world. 

This  galled  her  exceedingly,  but  she  consoled  herself 
with  the  thought  that  what  was  denied  her  was  freely  en- 
joyed by  her  children.  Her  son  Robert  and  her  daughter 
Katherine  were  in  the  front  rank  of  the  fashionable  set. 
The  name  of  her  daughter  was  associated  in  current  gos- 
sip, with  that  of  a  distinguished  scion  of  the  English 
nobility. 

Dr.  Suydam  was  in  this  family,  but  not  of  it.  He  and 
his  wife  drifted  apart  immediately  after  marriage.  There 
was  never  any  real  love  between  them,  and  there  was  no 
common  interest  to  hold  them  together.  The  college  in 
China  suddenly  lost  its  charms.  Dr.  Suydam  thought  of 
it  with  shame  and  Mrs.  Suydam  never  thought  of  it  at 
all. 

She  was  busy  with  her  social  duties,  using  all  her  skill 
for  the  advancement  of  her  children,  and  left  her  husband 
to  his  books  and  his  writing.  She  admired  and  praised  his 
sermons,  and  in  the  sight  of  the  world  kept  her  place  as  a 
devoted  and  dutiful  wife. 

Dr.  Suydam  went  back  to  his  work  with  a  deep  sense 
of  humiliation.  He  had  lost  his  self-respect,  and  had 
forfeited  his  high  calling.  He  never  could  dream  of  giv- 
ing his  life  for  souls  that  are  lost.  The  only  thing  left  him 

204 


Domesticity 

was  to  become  a  successful  city  rector,  and  so  realize,  if 
possible,  the  ambition  of  his  wife. 

He  had  been  married  six  years,  and  all  that  time  had 
been  waiting  for  Dr.  Van  Antwerp,  the  rector,  to  die 
or  resign,  and  at  last  he  was  to  see  the  fulfillment  of  his 
lower  hope.  As  we  have  already  learned,  with  the  re- 
moval of  the  church,  which  was  soon  to  take  place,  Dr. 
Van  Antwerp  was  to  retire  on  a  handsome  pension,  and 
Dr.  Suydam  was  to  succeed  him  in  the  rectorship  of  Saint 
Nicholas  Church.  But  somehow  or  other  the  prospect 
was  not  alluring,  and  Dr.  Suydam  wished  for  another  lot 
than  that  which  fate  had  forced  upon  him,  wished  that 
there  was  some  other  hope  before  him  than  that  of  being 
the  rector  of  one  of  the  richest  and  most  fashionable 
churches  in  the  city  of  New  York. 

Never  had  he  felt  this  more  keenly  than  he  did  this 
day  as  he  stood  and  looked  sadly  at  the  clouds  returning 
after  the  rain. 

Dr.  Suydam  was  so  deep  in  his  revery  that  he  had  lost 
all  thought  of  the  luncheon  waiting  for  him  in  the  morn- 
ing room.  He  was  recalled  to  himself  by  the  voice  of 
Simmons  saying  with  a  shade  of  impatience :  "I  beg  your 
pardon,  sir,  but  Mrs.  Suydam  told  me  to  say  that  luncheon 
was  a-gettin'  cold  and  would  you  please  come  down." 

"Certainly,  Simmons,  I  will  come  immediately,"  said 
Dr.  Suydam  who,  however,  still  lingered  as  if  dreading  to 
meet  the  people  to  whom,  with  one  exception,  he  was 
hardly  more  than  a  stranger.  Finally  overcoming  his  re- 
luctance he  went  down  into  the  morning  room. 

His  wife  and  daughter  were  there  dressed  in  their 
morning  gowns  ;  his  wife  in  white,  but  Katherine  in  a  pale 
blue.  Robert  Bullet  was  seated  before  the  open  fire,  read- 
ing the  Spirit  of  the  Times,  a  sporting  paper.  He 

205 


The  Greater  Love 

looked  up  as  Dr.  Suydam  entered  and  taking  his  pipe  out 
of  his  mouth  said :  "Good  morning,  Doctor,"  and  then 
went  on  smoking  and  reading. 

Mrs.  Suydam  was  not  very  cordial  in  her  greeting. 
She  was  quite  impatient  because  luncheon  had  been  de- 
layed so  long.  What  she  considered  her  husband's  dila- 
tory habits  were  very  annoying  to  her.  She  did  not  rise, 
but  simply  glanced  up  and  said :  "You  are  very  late  to- 
day, Doctor." 

"Yes,  I  was  detained.  A  young  woman  wished  to  see 
me  after  the  service." 

"I  wonder  that  any  one  was  at  church  to-day,"  said 
Mrs.  Suydam,  "and  I  wonder  more  that  women  can't  let 
a  minister  alone.  It  was  Miss  Emmett,  I  suppose.  She 
is  always  stopping  you  as  you  go  down  the  aisle." 

"No,"  answered  Dr.  Suydam.  "It  was  a  stranger,  a 
woman  from  the  neighborhood  who  came  into  the  church 
to  get  out  of  the  storm." 

"I  am  glad,"  said  Mrs.  Suydam,  "that  we  are  going  to 
leave  that  neighborhood.  It  is  getting  worse  and  worse 
every  day;  and  those  people  are  forcing  themselves  into 
our  church.  If  you  are  a  little  late,  as  like  as  not  you  find 
a  shopgirl  in  your  pew." 

"Well,"  said  Dr.  Suydam,  smiling,  "a  shopgirl  needs 
the  gospel  as  much  as  young  ladies  of  society." 

"If  she  does,"  answered  Mrs.  Suydam,  tartly,  "let  her 
go  and  hear  it  in  a  mission  chapel  and  not  thrust  herself 
in  where  she  does  not  belong.  Those  people  are  getting 
more  and  more  insolent  every  day." 

Dr.  Suydam  never  argued  with  his  wife.  Whenever 
she  expressed  a  decided  opinion  it  was  his  custom  to  be 
silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  to  politely  change  the  sub- 
ject. So  at  this  moment  he  turned  his  attention  to  his 

206 


Domesticity 

chop  and  his  chocolate,  and  nothing  more  was  said  of  the 
stranger  whom  he  had  met  in  the  church. 

After  a  pause,  Katherine  Bullet  looked  up  from  the 
morning  paper  and  said :  "Who  was  at  church  this  morn- 
ing, papa  ?" 

"Nobody,  my  child,"  said  the  Doctor,  "that  is,  nobody 
but  Mayor  Beekman." 

"And  I'll  bet  he  was  late,"  said  Robert.  "Beekman 
goes  down  every  Sunday  to  the  City  Hall  to  get  his  mail, 
and  he  takes  in  Saint  Nicholas  on  his  way  home,  gets  in 
just  in  time  for  the  sermon,  and  leaves  as  soon  as  it  is 
over.  Beekman  doesn't  waste  any  time  on  preliminaries 
or  conclusions,  I  can  tell  you." 

"Well,"'  said  Katherine,  "I  think  the  Mayor  shows 
his  good  sense  in  all  that.  Daddy's  sermon  is  about  all 
there  is  worth  staying  for  in  old  Saint  Nicholas.  It  is. 
getting  to  be  a  nasty  place  and  as  dreary  as  a  barn." 

"Katherine,"  said  Mrs.  Suydam,  severely,  "how  often 
must  I  tell  you  not  to  call  Dr.  Suydam,  Daddy  ?  It  is  not 
respectful." 

"Oh,  you  don't  care,  do  you,  Daddy?"  said  the  girl, 
coming  and  standing  behind  the  Doctor's  chair.  "You 
don't  want  to  be  treated  with  respect  all  the  time,  do  you 
now  ?  I'm  certain  I'd  die  if  I  had  to  be  treated  with  re- 
spect day  and  night.  When  I  get  to  be  a  duchess,  I  tell 
you  I'm  not  going  to  bed  with  my  coronet  on.  There  is 
one  thing  I  am  going  to  put  in  the  marriage  settlements, 
and  that  is  that  I  am  not  to  sleep  in  my  dignity." 

"Katherine,"  cried  Mrs.  Suydam,  "remember  that  your 
brother  and  Dr.  Suydam  are  present." 

"I  beg  a  thousand  pardons.  A  woman  should  never 
speak  of  sleeping,  in  the  presence  of  so  modest  a  person 
as  Dr.  Suydam,  or  of  one  so  innocent  as  Bobby  Bullet." 

207 


The  Greater  Love 

Dr.  Suydam  took  the  hand  of  the  girl,  with  which  she 
was  smoothing  his  hair,  and  said,  "You  naughty  girl ;  why 
do  you  delight  to  say  things  that  shock  your  mother  ?  If 
your  bite  were  as  bad  as  your  bark,  we  should  have  to 
keep  you  muzzled  all  the  time.  Tell  me,  madcap,  where 
were  you  last  night  that  you  did  not  get  home  till  ever 
so  late?" 

"Late,  Daddy,"  said  the  girl,  "late,  it  was  early,  it  was 
four  o'clock  in  the  morning." 

"Where  could  you  have  been  till  that  hour?"  said 
the  Doctor.  "I  thought  you  said  you  were  going  to  Mrs. 
Schuyler's  to  dinner." 

"So  I  did,"  answered  Katherine.  "If  you  want  a 
history  of  the  evening,  I  will  try  to  give  it  to  you,  though 
it  will  be  hard  to  remember  everything  as  it  happened. 
At  six  I  went  to  the  Perkins'  to  afternoon  tea;  at  seven 
I  came  home  and  dressed,  and  went  to  Schuyler's  to 
dinner.  At  ten  we  went  to  the  opera  for  the  last  act  of 
Tannhauser ;  at  eleven-thirty  we  drove  up  to  Tommy  Van 
Winkle's  studio  to  see  some  dancing;  at  one  o'clock  we 
went  to  the  Horton  house  for  supper;  from  there  we 
drove  to  the  Schuyler's,  where  we  girls  sat  about  and 
talked  till  four  o'clock,  and  then  I  came  home." 

"Kate,"  said  Robert  Bullet,  slowly  looking  up  from 
his  paper,  "if  I  were  you,  I  wouldn't  be  so  fresh." 

"Don't  say  wouldn't,  Bobby,  dear,  say  couldn't.  If 
you  had  been  through  all  I  went  through  last  night,  you 
would  be  so  exhausted  that  you  couldn't  even  smoke  your 

pipe." 

"You  girls,"  said  the  young  man,  "are  getting  so  fast 
there  is  no  keeping  up  with  you.  We  men  are  getting 
tired  of  it  all,  I  can  tell  you." 

"I  can  well  believe  that,  Bobby,  my  boy.    You  men 

208 


Domesticity 

tire  very  easily.  You  lose  your  wind  before  you  have 
commenced  to  run  your  race.  You  young  men  are  worn 
out  with  dissipation  before  you  are  twenty." 

These  spats  between  brother  and  sister  were  so  much 
a  part  of  the  family  life,  that  no  notice  was  taken  of  them. 

"Come,  Katherine,"  said  Dr.  Suydam,  "leave  Robert 
to  his  paper,  and  tell  me  if  you  think  it  is  just  the  thing 
for  the  daughter  of  Dr.  Suydam  to  be  out  until  four 
o'clock  Sunday  morning." 

"Oh,  that  wasn't  the  daughter  of  Dr.  Suydam  at  all, 
at  all,"  said  Katherine,  dropping  into  a  rich  Irish  brogue. 
"It  was  that  bit  of  a  divil,  Jim  Bullet's  gurl,  it  was.  Dr. 
Suydam's  daughter  goes  to  church  o'  Sundays,  and  is  as 
proper  as  Saint  Bridget,  but  that  divilish  cantrip,  Jim  Bul- 
let's gurl,  she's  the  terror,  she  is." 

"Katherine,"  said  Mrs.  Suydam,  "if  you  do  not  speak 
more  respectfully  of  your  father,  I  shall  leave  the  room. 
Your  irreverence  spares  nothing,  not  even  the  memory 
of  the  dead." 

"Pardon  me,  my  dear  mother,"  said  the  girl.  "I  not 
only  reverence  the  memory  of  James  Bullet,  deceased;  I 
adore  it.  From  all  that  I  can  learn  my  father,  James  Bul- 
let, lived  a  life  of  self-denial  that  would  have  made  him  a 
saint  in  the  good  old  days.  He  toiled  from  morning  till 
night  and  denied  himself  the  common  comforts  of  life, 
and  all  that  you  might  own  the  finest  house  in  New  York, 
that  Bobby,  over  yonder,  might  own  a  private  yacht,  and 
that  I,  Katherine  Bullet,  might,  if  I  pleased,  buy  a  duke- 
dom." 

"Katherine,"  said  her  mother,  rising  in  anger,  "your 
flippancy  is  unbearable.  I  do  not  know  where  you  got 
such  a  nature  as  yours.  Not  from  me,  certainly,  and 
surely  not  from  any  association  with  Dr.  Suydam." 

209 


The  Greater  Love 

"No,  mother,  not  from  you  nor  yet  from  Dr.  Suydam. 
I  am  Jim  Bullet's  girl  and  no  mistake.  I  have  heard  that 
my  respected  father  was  not  a  reverent  man;  I  am  told 
that  he  even  went  so  far  at  times  as  to  use  bad  words. 
You  ought  to  be  satisfied  if  I  am  only  flippant ;  you  know 
I  might  be  profane." 

"Kate,"  said  Robert,  rising  and  knocking  the  ashes 
from  his  pipe,  "you  are  a  fool." 

"Thanks,  awfully,  Bobby,"  said  Katherine,  with  a 
courtesy. 

As  Robert  was  leaving  the  room  his  mother  said :  "I 
hope,  Robert,  that  you  are  going  to  be  home  to  dinner. 
Mayor  Beekman  and  Florence  are  to  dine  with  us." 

"I  am  sorry,  mother,  but  I  can't  come  home  to-day. 
We  are  going  to  give  Dipford  a  dinner  at  the  club  to- 
night, before  he  starts  west  on  his  great  hunt." 

"Oh,  of  course,  if  you  are  to  dine  with  the  Marquis, 
you  cannot  come.  Give  my  regards  to  his  lordship,  and 
say  that  we  shall  expect  him  to  stay  with  us  when  he 
comes  back  from  the  west." 

"And  tell  that  young  man,"  said  Katherine,  "to  take 
good  care  of  himself.  He  must  remember  that  I  have  an 
option  on  him." ' 

"Katherine,"  cried  her  mother,  "your  coarse  way  of 
speaking  will  be  your  ruin." 

"Well,  mother  mine,  if  I  am  ruined  I  am  ruined.  But 
I  know  that  a  girl  worth  twenty  millions  in  her  own  right 
is  not  easily  ruined.  She  can,  if  she  pleases,  indulge  in 
the  expensive  luxury  of  speaking  the  truth.  I  know  and 
you  know  and  Daddy  knows  that  the  coronet  of  the  pro- 
spective Duchess  of  Senlac  is  in  the  market,  and  I  am  one 
of  the  half-dozen  girls  in  the  country  that  can  put  up  the 
necessary  funds.  I  have  put  in  my  bid.  Dipford  isn't 

210 


Domesticity 

much  of  a  man,  but  I  like  him  for  his  title's  sake,  and  if 
I  want  him  I  am  pretty  sure  to  get  him.  There  is  no  girl 
in  the  town  that  has  so  much  money,  combined  with  so 
much  beauty." 

The  girl  drew  herself  up  to  her  full  height  and  made 
a  sweeping  gesture  with  her  arm,  and  her  presence  did 
not  belie  her  words.  She  was  that  most  bewitching  of 
women,  an  Irish  blonde ;  her  hair,  which  was  the  coronet 
that  nature  had  made  for  her,  was  gathered  in  great  coils 
about  her  head  and  was  the  color  of  the  clouds  at  sunset. 
When  Katherine  was  young,  Bobby  called  her  red-head, 
but  the  red  had  grown  darker,  and  her  hair  was  like  the 
clouds  of  evening  shot  through  and  through  with  light. 
Her  "eyes  were  of  the  deepest  blue  and  were  merry  and 
mischievous.  Her  nose,  short  and  thick,  would  have  been 
an  ugly  feature,  had  it  not  been  for  the  full  ripe  lips,  al- 
ways rippling  with  laughter,  which  made  a  man  crazy  to 
kiss  them. 

In  the  presence  of  this  girl  a  man  was  in  the  presence 
of  life — of  life  that  was  bright  and  joyous  and  satisfied 
with  itself.  She  had  everything  which  this  world  gives 
to  its  favorites ;  beauty  of  person,  health,  wealth,  social 
position,  and  the  sense  of  humor.  Katherine  did  not  take 
herself  or  her  world  seriously.  She  was  on  the  lookout 
for  the  fun  and  frolic  side  of  life,  and  she  was  a  girl  in 
her  twentieth  year. 

Dr.  Suydam,  as  he  looked  at  her,  could  not  help  ad- 
miring her.  She  was  all  that  made  his  domestic  life 
tolerable. 

At  her  last  speech  the  Doctor  laughed  heartily,  and 
said :  "Take  care,  my  dear ;  it  is  not  well  to  boast  before 
your  bargain  is  completed.  There  are  other  girls  as  con- 
fident as  you  of  securing  the  prize  of  their  high  calling 


211 


The  Greater  Love 

in  the  social  world,  which  seems  to  be  an  English  coro- 
net. Take  care,  I  say,  that  they  do  not  combine  against 
you." 

At  this  Katherine  made  a  pretty  mouth  and  left  the 
room.  Mrs.  Suydam  followed  her,  and  Dr.  Suydam  re- 
turned to  the  quiet  of  his  library  and  the  company  of  his 
books. 


CHAPTER  IV 

MARRIAGE  RIGHTS  OF  THE  POOR 

AFTER  his  meeting  with  Keturah  Bain,  Dr.  Suydam 
had  fallen  into  the  habit  of  going  down  to  the  church  for 
the  afternoon  service.  At  that  time  none  of  the  regular 
parishoners  were  present,  only  people  from  the  neighbor- 
hood and  strangers  off  the  street.  This  afternoon  serv- 
ice was  in  charge  of  the  younger  members  of  the  clerical 
staff;  the  rector  was  never  present,  and  Dr.  Suydam 
rarely.  It  was  a  matter  of  comment  when  he  began  to 
come  Sunday  after  Sunday  to  evening  prayer.  The 
younger  clergy  wondered  among  themselves  as  to  its 
meaning.  They  were  the  more  puzzled,  and  not  a  little 
scandalized,  when  they  saw  Dr.  Suydam  frequently  meet- 
ing and  walking  away  with  a  strange  woman. 

Dr.  Suydam  was  himself  perplexed  by  his  state  of 
mind.  He  was  strangely  drawn  to  Keturah  Bain.  Her 
spiritual  and  intellectual  condition  had  for  him  a  subtle 
fascination.  With  her  he  could  discuss,  as  he  did  with 
no  other  person,  the  fundamental  problems  of  human  life. 
And  yet  he  felt  that  if  these  discussions  were  to  have  any 
practical  result,  they  would  throw  him  out  of  harmony 
with  his  own  world  and  lead  him  into  strange  countries. 

In  the  long  summer  afternoons,  he  and  Keturah  used 
to  walk  together  down  to  the  Battery  Park,  and  talk  of 
the  things  that  lay  nearest  their  hearts. 

213 


The  Greater  Love 

The  time  for  the  picnic  of  the  Plumbers'  Union  was 
near,  and  Keturah  knew  that  John  Sherwood  would  be 
pressing  his  suit,  and  she  was  sad  and  anxious.  Her 
marriage  seemed  farther  away  than  ever,  and  she  wished 
she  could  put  an  end  to  it  all  and  send  John  away  forever 
and  ever. 

When  she  and  Dr.  Suydam  were  seated  on  a  bench 
in  Battery  Park,  looking  out  over  the  bay,  Keturah  turned 
to  the  Doctor  and  said:  "Dr.  Suydam,  do  you  think  that 
poor  people  ought  to  marry?" 

"Certainly,"  said  the  Doctor.  "Why  not?  Why  do 
you  ask  such  a  question  ?" 

"Why,  it  seems  to  me,"  said  the  girl,  sadly,  "that  if 
poor  people  didn't  marry,  in  a  little  while  there  wouldn't 
be  any  poor  people,  and  all  the  misery  that  comes  of 
poverty  would  pass  away  from  the  earth." 

Dr.  Suydam  laughed  heartily,  and  answered :  "Very 
true,  but  if  the  poor  people  didn't  marry,  there  wouldn't 
be  any  people  at  all,  the  work  of  the  world  would  cease, 
and  the  human  race  come  to  an  untimely  end." 

"Then  you  think  poor  people  ought  to  marry,  and  have 
children,  so  that  the  human  race  may  be  continued  and 
the  work  of  the  world  carried  on?"  said  Keturah. 

"Yes,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"But  what  is  the  use  of  it  ?"  asked  Keturah. 

"The  use  of  what?"  said  the  Doctor. 

"The  use  of  the  human  race  and  the  work  of  the 
world.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  continued  misery  of  the 
poor  is  an  awful  price  to  pay  for  such  a  sorry  thing  as  this 
world  and  the  human  life  that  is  on  it.  Now  if  the  poor 
people  were  simply  to  stop  marrying  for  fifty  years,  there 
would  be  an  end  of  all  toil  and  trouble;  there  would  be 
no  more  sin  and  no  more  sorrow." 

214 


Marriage  Rights  of  the  Poor 

"True,"  said  Dr.  Suydam,  "but  your  remedy  is  not 
likely  to  be  applied  in  our  day.  Nature  has  taken  care  of 
that.  The  poorer  the  people,  the  sooner  they  marry  and 
the  more  children  they  have." 

"Yes,"  said  Keturah,  "and  that  is  what  makes  me 
angry.  I  cannot  understand  how  a  poor  woman,  with  a 
decent  thought  in  her  mind,  can  think  of  marrying  and 
bringing  children  into  the  world,  to  live  as  the  children 
of  the  poor  live  in  this  city.  Why!  such  children  are 
damned  before  they  are  born.  I,  for  one,  can  never  be 
guilty  of  adding  a  single  life  to  increase  the  sum  of  sin 
and  suffering  in  the  world !" 

"Do  you  mean,"  said  Dr.  Suydam,  "that  you  will  never 
marry  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Keturah,  "that  is  what  I  mean,  and  yet  I 
want  to  marry.  I  have  wanted  to  marry  for  a  long  time. 
I  have  been  engaged  ten  years." 

"Engaged  for  ten  years!"  said  the  Doctor,  looking 
into  the  sad,  strong  face  before  him  with  new  interest. 
"You  must  have  a  faithful  lover." 

"Yes,  I  have,"  said  Keturah,  "John  Sherwood  is  as 
faithful  as  a  dog.  I  tell  him  to  go  away  and  marry  some 
other  woman.  But  he  will  not  let  me  go." 

"And  do  you  care  for  him?"  said  the  Doctor. 

"Care  for  him?"  said  Keturah.  "More  than  that,  I 
love  him.  John  Sherwood  is  not  a  great  man,  but  he  is 
a  good  man.  He  came  into  my  life  when  I  needed  him, 
and  now  he  is  as  much  a  part  of  my  life  as  I  am  myself ; 
but  yet  I  cannot  marry  him  and  give  him  the  only  poor 
reward  he  asks  for  all  his  years  of  devotion." 

"Why  can't  you  marry  him  ?"  said  the  Doctor. 

"Because  he  is  poor  and  I  am  poor,"  said  the  girl. 

"That  is  carrying  a  theory  to  the  point  of  absurdity. 

215 


The  Greater  Love 

Poor  people  must  marry  and  believe  that  God  will  take 
care  of  them  and  their  children,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"That  is  all  very  well,  Doctor,  for  you  to  say,  because 
you  are  a  minister ;  but  as  a  matter  of  fact,  you  know  and 
I  know  that  God  does  not  take  care  of  the  children  of  the 
poor.  They  are  hungry  and  they  are  cold;  they  go  to 
prison  and  to  lives  of  shame,  and  your  God  does  not  lift 
a  finger  to  help  them." 

"But,  my  dear  Keturah,"  said  the  Doctor,  anxiously, 
"is  not  God  the  father  of  the  fatherless,  and  did  not  Jesus 
call  the  weary  and  heavy  laden  to  himself?  Must  we  not 
have  faith  and  believe  that  God  will  bring  light  out  of 
darkness  ?" 

"That,  Dr.  Suydam,  is  very  beautiful,  and  when  I  am 
up  in  Saint  Nicholas  listening  to  you  I  believe  it,  or  at 
least  I  try  to  believe ;  but  when  I  get  down  into  Mulberry 
Street  I  cannot  believe  it.  There  is  no  God  down  there 
who  cares  for  the  people.  He  seems  to  care  for  the  people 
up  town,  but  not  for  the  people  in  the  back  streets." 

"But  he  has  left  his  church  in  the  world  to  care  for 
those  very  people." 

"Very  true,"  said  Keturah,  "but  does  it  ?" 

Dr.  Suydam  sat  silent  for  a  moment  and  then  he 
answered:  "I  am  afraid  not,  I  am  afraid  not." 

"Under  the  circumstances  I  do  not  think  I  ought  to 
marry,  not  even  if  there  was  no  one  to  think  of  but  John 
and  myself.  I  do  not  think  children  ought  to  be  born 
into  such  a  world  as  we  have  to  live  in.  It  isn't  fair  to 
the  children." 

That  evening  Dr.  Suydam  walked  home  with  Keturah 
Bain.  She  had  never  permitted  this  before ;  now  she 
consented  because  she  wanted  him  to  see  the  world  in 
which  she  lived  and  into  which  she  did  not  wish  children 
to  be  born. 

216 


Marriage  Righ+*  of  the  Poor 

The  back  streets  of  the  city  were  really  an  unknown 
land  to  Dr.  Suydam.  He  had  gone  to  and  from  his 
church  by  Broadway.  He  was  in  the  habit  of  riding  more 
than  walking,  and  was  used  to  looking  at  life  from  a  car- 
riage window.  People  out  yonder  on  the  pavement 
secerned  to  belong  to  a  different  world  with  which  the 
man  in  the  carriage  had  no  concern. 

As  Dr.  Suydam  walked  down  Mulberry  Street,  through 
the  throng  of  people  and  saw  the  ragged  children  playing 
on  the  sidewalk,  as  he  looked  at  the  unkempt,  slovenly 
women  and  at  the  hard,  degraded  faces  of  the  men,  he 
began  to  have  that  pity  for  the  multitude  which  filled  the 
heart  of  Jesus  the  Christ. 

When  they  came  to  the  passage  way  leading  to  53 
Mulberry  Street  in  the  rear,  he  asked  Keturah  where  she 
was  going.  She  said,  "Home." 

The  court  into  which  she  led  him  was  already  dark, 
though  out  in  the  street  it  was  still  light.  In  the  gloom 
Dr.  Suydam  was  just  able  to  see  the  grimy  cottage  of 
the  Bain's,  crowded  against  the  black  cabin  of  the  Ma- 
grath's.  "Do  you  live  here  ?"  said  Dr.  Suydam. 

"Yes,"  said  Keturah. 

"How  long  have  you  lived  here  ?"  said  the  Doctor. 

"All  my  life,"  said  Keturah. 

"But  surely  you  have  not  lived  in  this  darkness  and 
dirt  all  your  life." 

"No,"  said  Keturah,  "when  I  was  a  child,  it  was  very 
different.  There  was  nothing  between  our  cottage  and 
the  street,  and  we  had  a  pretty  garden  with  flowers  and 
trees." 

"How  did  you  come  to  lose  it  all  ?"  inquired  Dr.  Suy- 
dam. 

"My  father  was  unfortunate  and  we  had  to  sell ;  then 

217 


The  Greater  Love 

the  Bullet  estate  bought  our  land  and  moved  our  cottage 
back  and  built  the  great  tenement  in  front,  and  so  we  were 
shut  in." 

"And  how  much  rent  do  you  pay  for  this  place  ?" 

"We  pay  twenty  dollars  a  month." 

"Twenty  dollars  a  month  for  this  house,  without  light 
or  air !  It  is  an  outrage.  Why  do  you  stay  here  ?" 

"Because  we  have  nowhere  else  to  go.  I  must  be 
near  my  work.  We  would  have  to  pay  nearly  as  much 
for  a  floor  in  a  tenement.  We  have  this  little  house  all 
to  ourselves  and  it  is  our  home." 

Dr.  Suydam  simply  said  "Home,"  and  with  tears  in 
his  eyes  gave  his  hand  to  Keturah,  said  "Good-by"  in  a 
low  voice,  and  went  away. 

He  understood  why  Keturah  did  not  want  to  marry 
and  have  children, 


318 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  POLICY  OF  AN  ESTATE 

FROM  that  time  Dr.  Suydam  visited  Keturah  in  her 
own  home  and  became  intensely  interested  in  the  phase 
of  life  which  was  thus  revealed  to  him.  When  he  came 
to  know  her  father  and  her  mother,  her  sister  and  her 
brother,  and  to  learn,  as  he  did,  little  by  little,  how  she 
had  given  her  life  to  keep  these  other  lives  from  sinking 
into  irremediable  ruin,  Dr.  Suydam  began  to  have  for 
Keturah  Bain  a  veneration  bordering  on  worship.  He 
saw  in  her  a  living  example  of  that  law  of  sacrifice  which 
underlies  human  life,  and  is  its  safety  and  its  hope. 

Keturah  Bain  lived  the  Christ  life  which  Dr.  Suydam 
preached. 

Not  only  did  Dr.  Suydam  come  to  know  the  lives  of 
the  people  living  in  the  crowded  precincts  of  Mulberry 
Street,  but  he  came  to  know  also  the  conditions  that  were 
in  a  measure  responsible  for  those  lives,  and  among  other 
things  he  made  a  painful  acquaintance  with  the  Bullet 
estate.  He  found  that  estate  invested  largely  in  tenement 
property.  Whenever  it  was  possible  each  lot  had  on  it  a 
front  and  rear  tenement.  Nearly  every  front  tenement 
had  a  saloon  on  the  first  floor,  and  the  rear  tenements 
were  the  abode  of  unutterable  poverty  and  squalor.  The. 
estate,  so  invested,  was  yielding  ten  per  cent,  net,  on  its 
valuation. 

219 


The  Greater  Love 

As  these  facts  became  known  to  Dr.  Suydam,  they 
filled  him  with  sorrowful  indignation.  He  began  to  look 
upon  himself  and  the  social  class  to  which  he  belonged, 
as  vampires,  who  were  sucking  the  life-blood  of  the  poor. 
The  luxury  in  which  he  lived,  he  now  saw  clearly  was 
paid  for  by  the  souls  of  the  people.  The  honor  of  man- 
hood and  the  purity  of  womanhood  were  sacrificed  to  the 
idol  of  material  prosperity,  shared  by  the  few  to  whom  it 
ministered.  The  more  Dr.  Suydam  thought  about  it,  the 
more  he  saw  that  it  was  utterly  antagonistic  to  the  gospel 
of  Christ.  He  could  see  now,  if  he  had  never  seen  be- 
fore, why  Christianity  was  such  a  failure  in  the  world. 
The  religion  of  the  Master  had  been  betrayed  by  its  own 
disciples.  The  power  and  success  of  the  world  had  laid 
hold  of  the  machinery  of  the  Christian  religion,  and  were 
using  it  for  their  own  advantage.  They  were  keeping  the 
people  quiet  by  the  hope  of  a  world  to  come,  while  they 
themselves  were  seizing  and  enjoying  the  world  that 
now  is. 

Dr.  Suydam  determined  that  he  would  not  any  longer 
be  responsible  for  the  great  wrong  which  he  had  discov- 
ered. He  made  up  his  mind  to  speak  to  his  wife  and  per- 
suade her,  if  possible,  to  remedy  some  of  the  worst  evils 
existing  on  her  estate. 

In  concluding  to  take  this  step,  Dr.  Suydam  was  de- 
parting from  a  rule  which  he  had  observed  from  the  be- 
ginning of  his  married  life. 

He  had  never  in  any  way  meddled  with  the  affairs  of 
his  wife.  He  soon  learned  that  she  was  a  woman  fully 
capable  of  managing  her  own  business ;  that  in  all  the 
practical  concerns  of  the  world  she  was  greatly  his  su- 
perior. Deferring  to  her  judgment,  he  was  in  the  habit 
of  consulting  her  in  regard  to  his  own  investments,  and 
rarely  did  her  judgment  fail  him. 

220 


The  Policy  of  an  Estate 

The  opinion  which  Dr.  Suydam  had  of  his  wife  was 
shared  by  the  lady  herself.  She  knew  that  in  all  that 
pertains  to  the  business  of  the  world  Dr.  Suydam  was  a 
child,  who  but  for  her  guiding  and  restraining  hand, 
would  lose  all  that  he  had,  and  as  for  consulting  him 
about  her  own  business,  the  thought  never  occurred  to 
her.  She  had  managed  the  Bullet  estate,  without  his 
help,  in  the  days  of  her  widowhood,  and  she  continued  to 
do  so  after  she  had  married  the  second  time. 

Mrs.  Suydam  had  for  her  husband  the  mild  contempt 
which  men  and  women  of  affairs  have  for  men  and  women 
of  thought  and  feeling.  It  was,  therefore,  no  easy  task 
for  Dr.  Suydam  to  speak  upon  a  subject  that  had  never 
once  been  mentioned  by  him  to  his  wife.  But  as  he  could 
not  silence  his  conscience  in  any  other  way,  he  finally 
mustered  courage  and  sought  his  wife  for  the  purpose 
of  pressing  upon  her  the  necessity  of  a  reform  in  the  ad- 
ministration of  her  estate. 

At  breakfast  one  morning,  after  a  visit  to  Keturah 
Bain,  Dr.  Suydam  told  his  wife  that  he  would  like  to 
speak  with  her  for  a  few  moments  on  a  matter  of  business. 

"Certainly,"  said  Mrs.  Suydam,  and  she  led  the  way 
to  her  private  room.  This  room  contained  all  the  furni- 
ture to  be  found  in  a  business  office :  a  great  desk  in  the 
center  and  alphabetical  cabinets  along  the  walls  for  the 
arrangement  and  filing  of  business  papers.  Off  this 
office  was  a  smaller  room  occupied  by  Mrs.  Suydam's 
private  secretary. 

Closing  the  door  of  the  secretary's  room,  Mrs.  Suy- 
dam sat  down  at  her  desk  and  waited  for  her  husband  to 
speak.  Seating  himself  in  a  chair  which  was  placed  at 
the  side  of  the  desk  for  those  who  wished  to  interview 
Mrs.  Suydam,  Dr,  Suydam  proceeded  to  open  his  case. 


221 


The  Greater  Love 

He  said !  "I  have  been  visiting  some  of  our  people  who 
live  in  the  lower  part  of  the  city.  I  find  that  they  are 
tenants  of  your  estate,  and  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  about 
the  houses  in  which  they  live ;  they  are  in  a  very  bad  con- 
dition and  are  unfit  for  occupation." 

"I  do  not  see,  Dr.  Suydam,"  said  his  wife,  "why  you 
should  trouble  yourself  about  matters  that  do  not  concern 
you.  I  leave  the  care  of  my  estate  to  my  agent,  and  he 
receives  all  complaints  from  the  tenants  and  does  with 
them  what  he  thinks  is  best." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Suydam,"  (Dr.  Suydam 
and  his  wife  had  fallen  into  the  formal  way  of  calling 
each  other  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Suydam),  "for  speaking  to  you 
in  regard  to  matters  that  I  have,  up  to  this  time,  left  to 
your  own  judgment;  but  the  evils  on  your  estate  are  so 
many  and  so  great  that  I  must  speak  of  them,  and  if  possi- 
ble, get  you  to  correct  them." 

"Again  I  say,  Doctor,"  said  Mrs.  Suydam,  her  color 
rising,  "that  I  have  perfect  confidence  in  my  agent.  He 
will,  I  am  sure,  do  all  that  the  best  interest  of  the  estate 
demands." 

"I  am  not  thinking,  Mrs.  Suydam,  of  your  estate," 
answered  the  Doctor;  "I  am  thinking  of  the  people  who 
live  on  your  estate.  It  is  for  them  that  I  speak.  Your 
estate  is  oppressing  them,  demanding  of  them  three  times 
the  value  of  the  tenements  in  which  they  live." 

"I  would  like  to  know,  Dr.  Suydam,"  said  the  lady, 
with  a  tinge  of  sarcasm,  "how  you  have  come  so  suddenly 
to  take  an  interest  in  these  people.  I  have  known  you 
now  for  ten  years,  and  this  is  the  first  time  I  have  ever 
heard  you  so  much  as  mention  the  people  who  live  ir 
lower  New  York.  If  I  remember  rightly,  you  are  chieflj 
interested  in  the  welfare  of  the  Chinese." 


222 


The  Policy  of  an  Estate 

"I  can  pardon  your  sneer,  Mrs.  Suydam,"  answered 
the  Doctor,  "because  it  contains  a  very  sad  truth.  It  is 
true  that  I  have  for  years  been  the  pastor  of  a  church  and 
have  never  once  taken  the  trouble  to  look  into  the  lives 
of  the  people  who  live  under  the  shadow  of  its  steeple." 

"And  what  has  roused  your  sudden  interest?"  said 
Mrs.  Suydam.  "A  woman?" 

"Yes,"  said  Dr.  Suydam,  "a  woman." 

"I  thought  as  much,"  said  Mrs.  Suydam.  "Your 
sudden  zeal  for  the  souls  of  the  people  has  its  origin  in 
zeal  for  the  soul  of  another  one  of  the  women  who  fall 
down  and  worship  you.  I  would  advise  you,  Dr.  Suydam, 
to  drop  this  creature.  Your  attention  to  her  has  been 
remarked." 

"Madame,"  said  Dr.  Suydam,  flushing  in  his  turn  with 
anger,  "I  shall  exercise  my  pastoral  office  as  I  think  best, 
and  pay  no  attention  to  idle  and  evil  gossip.  This 
creature,  as  you  call  her,  is  living  in  one  of  your  tenements 
and  is  paying  you  twenty  per  cent,  on  a  fair  valuation  of 
your  property.  You  are  robbing  her  to  keep  yourself, 
your  son,  and  your  daughter  in  luxury." 

"Pardon  me,  Dr.  Suydam,"  said  the  lady,  with  quiet 
scorn;  "remember  we  are  not  in  church,  and  this  is  no 
place  for  a  sermon.  If  the  creature  in  whom  you  are  so 
much  interested  does  not  wish  to  pay  the  rent  which  my 
estate  demands,  she  is  not  compelled  to  do  so.  She  can 
leave  my  property  and  go  elsewhere." 

"Yes ;  and  where  will  she  go  ?  To  property  that  is  as 
bad  and  even  worse  than  yours.  The  tenement  property 
is  all  alike." 

"You  admit,  then,"  said  Mrs.  Suydam,  smiling,  "that 
the  Bullet  estate  is  not  exceptionally  wicked  in  its  deal- 
ings with  tenants." 

223 


The  Greater  Love 

"Certainly ;  I  admit  that  your  estate  is  no  worse  than 
others  in  the  same  neighborhood,  but  I  would  have  it 
far  better.  I  would  have  it  a  model  of  all  that  such  an 
estate  should  be — an  example  of  what  an  estate  should  do 
for  people  that  live  in  its  houses." 

"Indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Suydam,  lifting  her  eyebrows, 
"and  what  do  you  advise  us  to  do  ?" 

"I  would  have  you,"  answered  the  Doctor,  "tear  away 
all  the  rear  tenements.  They  are  simply  pestholes,  breed- 
ing all  kinds  of  disease.  I  would  have  you  place  in  every 
set  of  apartments  a  bath  and  a  closet,  and  instead  of  rent- 
ing to  saloon  keepers,  I  would  have  you  set  apart  one 
large  room  on  the  street  as  a  reading  room  for  the  use  of 
the  tenants  of  the  building." 

Mrs.  Suydam  laughed  scornfully.  "Your  interest  in 
the  creature  is  even  greater  than  I  thought.  You  wish  to 
provide  her  with  all  the  luxuries  of  life,  and  are  willing 
that  I  should  pay  for  them.  No,  I  thank  you." 

"I  wish,  Mrs.  Suydam,"  said  the  Doctor,  earnestly, 
"I  wish  you  would  drop  all  personalities  and  all  feeling 
and  look  at  this  matter  from  the  standpoint  of  Chris- 
tianity." 

"And  pray,"  said  Mrs.  Suydam,  "what  has  Chris- 
tianity to  do  with  the  management  of  my  estate?" 

"It  has  everything  to  do  with  it,"  exclaimed  Dr.  Suy- 
dam. "In  the  management  of  your  estate  you  are  violat- 
ing the  plainest  precepts  of  Christianity  every  day." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Mrs.  Suydam.  "If  I  am,  I  am 
glad  to  know  it.  But  you  will  please  remember  that  I 
manage  my  business  on  business  principles,  and  not  ac- 
cording to  the  sentimental  vagaries  of  people  who  know 
nothing  about  the  world  in  which  they  live." 

"But,  Mrs.  Suydam,"  expostulated  the  Doctor,  "your 
practice  is  a  daily  contradiction  to  my  preaching." 

224 


The  Policy  of  an  Estate 

"And  what  if  it  is?"  said  the  lady,  with  deepening 
scorn.  "You  do  not  for  a  moment  suppose  that  the  people 
to  whom  you  preach  take  your  preaching  seriously.  No 
one  dreams  for  a  moment  of  acting  on  the  principles 
which  you  proclaim  so  eloquently.  You  do  not  take  it 
seriously  yourself.  You  preach  poverty  and  self-denial, 
but  for  all  that  you  like  a  good  dinner  and  are  particular 
about  your  wine." 

"You  refuse,  then,"  said  the  Doctor,  rising,  "to  even 
consider  the  matter  of  reforming  the  abuses  existing  in 
connection  with  your  estate  ?" 

"I  certainly  do,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Suydam,  turning  to 
her  papers.  "It  is  my  duty  to  take  care  of  my  income." 

"And  it  is  mine,"  said  the  Doctor,  as  he  passed  out 
of  the  room,  "to  take  care  of  my  people." 

And  he  went  out  of  the  presence  of  his  wife  baffled 
and  ashamed. 


225 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  DEVIL  AT  WORK 

THE  long  summer  days  came,  bringing  with  them 
their  stifling  heat.  The  clergy  and  people  of  Saint 
Nicholas'  church  migrated  to  the  mountains  and  the  sea- 
side. Robert  Bullet's  yacht,  the  Sea  Hawk,  spread  its 
white  wings  and  sailed  away  to  the  coast  of  Maine. 

At  the  same  time  Abigail  accepted  an  invitation  to 
spend  a  part  of  the  summer  with  one  of  her  friends  in  the 
country.  Keturah  was  glad  to  have  her  go,  and  was 
thankful  that  Abigail  was  in  the  way  of  being  lifted  out 
of  the  sordid  and  debasing  conditions  of  Mulberry  Street. 
She  saw,  however,  with  sadness,  that  her  new  life  was 
drawing  her  sister  farther  and  farther,  not  only  from  her 
home,  but  also  from  her  people.  Keturah  knew  that  in  a 
short  time  she  would  lose  Abigail  altogether.  As  soon 
as  she  began  teaching  she  would  live  elsewhere. 

The  summer  was  a  lonesome  one  for  Keturah.  She 
had  sad,  homesick  letters  from  Shinar.  He  never  could 
get  used  to  the  country.  There  was  so  much  noise  there ; 
he  couldn't  sleep.  The  birds  and  the  cattle  and  the  chick- 
ens wakened  him  before  daylight,  and  the  crickets  and  the 
katy-dids  wouldn't  let  him  sleep  o'  nights. 

When  Keturah  read  these  complaints  and  then 
listened  to  the  ceaseless  din  of  the  city  streets,  the  rattle 

227 


The  Greater  Love 

and  the  roar,  the  cries  of  vendors  and  the  shrieking  of 
children,  she  smiled  at  Shinar's  grumbling,  and  wished 
that  she  too  might  be  wakened  by  the  song  of  birds  and 
the  lowing  of  cattle,  and  go  to  sleep  to  music  of  crickets 
and  the  cry  of  the  katy-did.  Keturah  smiled  more  sadly 
when  she  read  at  the  close  of  Shinar's  letter  the  words, 
asking  her  "not  to  let  Abigail  forget  him."  "Poor  boy," 
she  said,  under  her  breath,  "Abigail  thinks  less  of  him 
than  he  thinks  of  the  birds  and  crickets." 

As  Keturah  lay  awake  night  after  night  in  the  sicken- 
ing heat  of  her  back  tenement,  a  great  fear  kept  watch 
with  her  in  the  darkness. 

After  a  brief  effort  at  sobriety  her  father  had  fallen 
back  into  his  drinking  habits.  True  to  his  vow  that  not 
a  drop  of  Cronin's  whisky  should  pass  down  his  throat, 
he  had  transferred  his  patronage  to  the  saloon  of  Patrick 
Maloney  over  the  way.  This  saloon  was  not  nearly  so 
fashionable  nor  so  elegant  as  that  of  the  alderman. 

It  had  no  mahogany  bar  nor  nickel-plated  ale  pump; 
its  sanded  floor  and  deal  tables  showed  that  it  was  a  re- 
sort for  the  common  people.  Sailors  and  'longshoremen 
were  among  its  patrons. 

In  this  saloon  Captain  Bain  was  a  great  man.  He 
was  a  city  official,  and  was  known  to  have  a  mysterious 
pull  with  the  district  leader. 

Maloney  treated  the  Captain  with  the  utmost  defer- 
ence and  placed  at  his  disposal  a  little  back  room  where 
he  could  confer  with  his  friends. 

Keturah  saw  her  father  sinking  down  into  lower  and 
lower  stratas  of  life,  and  knew  that  it  was  only  a  question 
of  a  little  time  when  he  would  be  turned  out  of  his  office 
in  the  Court  House,  and  with  his  dismissal  would  go  all 
hope  of  Abigail's  getting  a  school.  And  if  Abigail  did 


The  Devil  at  Work 

not  get  a  school,  what  could  she  do  ?  Whenever  Keturah 
thought  of  this  she  was  filled  with  a  feeling  of  terror.  She 
was  afraid  for  Abigail,  the  girl  was  so  pretty,  so  wilful, 
and  so  weak. 

Captain  Bain  did  not  share  in  Keturah's  anxiety.  He 
was  elated  with  his  prospects  and  was  bursting  with  self- 
importance.  From  time  to  time  he  let  fall  mysterious 
hints,  saying,  "It  aint  goin'  to  be  in  Noo  York  like  it 
has  been.  Flynn  and  the  boss'll  have  to  do  different 
if  they're  goin'  to  hold  on." 

Keturah  paid  no  attention  to  these  mutterings  of  her 
father;  they  seemed  to  her  simply  the  mutterings  of  a 
drunken  man.  In  the  night  she  turned  on  her  pillow  in 
despair  and  cried  herself  to  sleep.  In  her  dreams  she 
saw  a  very  sorrowful  figure  whose  soul  looked  at  her  out 
of  sorrowful  eyes,  and  when  she  wakened  in  the  morning 
she  was  comforted,  saying  to  herself,  "If  God  can't  help 
me,  at  least  he  is  sorry  for  me." 

But  Keturah  was  mistaken  in  thinking  her  father's 
mutterings  to  be  mere  drunken  vaporings.  He  was  en- 
gaged in  an  enterprise  of  great  moment.  He  was  entering 
into  a  secret  conspiracy  for  the  overthrow  of  the  ring  that 
ruled  New  York. 

No  less  a  person  than  Johnny  Fox,  a  leading  politician, 
who  was  known  to  be  out  with  the  boss,  visited  Captain 
Bain  in  the  back  room  of  Maloney's  saloon.  He  came  in 
by  the  side  door  so  that  his  presence  should  not  be  known 
to  the  customers  of  the  place. 

One  midsummer  night  Johnny  Fox  and  Captain  Bain 
were  sitting  in  conference,  a  bottle  of  whisky  between 
them,  slowly  drinking  and  talking. 

"Well,  Captain,"  said  Johnny  Fox,  "when  are  ye  goin' 
to  do  it?" 

229 


The  Greater  Love 

"I  don't  know  if  I'm  goin'  to  do  it  at  all,"  said  the 
Captain ;  "I  aint  promised  yet." 

"Yes,  you  did,"  said  Fox;  "you  promised  yisterday." 

"What  if  I  did?"  said  the  Captain,  sullenly.  "I  can 
take  it  back,  can't  I  ?  I'm  pretty  well  fixed  now." 

"Well  fixed,"  broke  in  Fox;  "Flynn  'ull  fix  you  in  a 
week  or  two.  He  aint  forgot  that  blow  you  give  him 
with  the  whisky  glass.  He's  jest  waiting  for  the  boss  to 
go  away  when  he'll  fire  you  quicker  than  hell  and  send  you 
to  the  Island  to  get  you  out  of  the  way." 

"I  know  Flynn  don't  like  me,"  said  Captain  Bain,  "but 
he  dassent  fire  me.  I'll  tell  on  him." 

"Tell  on  him  be  damned,"  said  Fox,  "what  'ull  he 
care  for  that  ?  He  'ull  say  you  're  a  drunken  liar.  I  tell 
you  if  you  want  to  make  yourself  solid  wid  us  you've  got 
to  hustle.  When  Flynn  fires  you  it  'ull  be  too  late." 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?"  said  the  Captain. 

"We  wants  you  to  get  in  the  dock-i-ment  room  in  the 
Court  House  and  hide  yourself  in  the  closet  and  see  where 
Jim  Carroll  keeps  thim  papers  of  his'n.  He's  mighty 
anxious  about  'em  and  comes  down  a  dozen  times  a  day 
to  see  if  they  are  all  right.  We  want  you  to  sneak  them 
papers." 

"How'll  I  do  it?"  asked  the  Captain. 

"This  way,"  said  Fox.  "To-morrow  you  go  and  hide 
in  the  closet  about  two  o'clock.  I'll  be  about  and  keep 
my  eye  on  Carroll.  When  he  goes  in  the  dock-i-ment 
room  I'll  foller  him  to  the  door.  When  he's  got  the 
drawer  of  the  dock-i-ment  chist  open  I'll  step  in  and  say, 
'Hello,  Carroll,  can  I  speak  to  you  ?'  He'll  come  all  right, 
and  I'll  lead  him  out  in  the  hall  and  you  sneak  thim  dock- 
i-ments,  and  you  can  put  these  papers  as  look  jest  like 
'em  in  the  drawer  and  hide  in  the  closet,  and  Carroll  'ull 

230 


The  Devil  at  Work 

go  back  and  see  the  papers  all  right  and  'ull  go  away  satis- 
fied." 

"And  what  'ull  you  do  with  the  papers?"  said  Cap- 
tain Bain. 

"Oh,  we  'ull  photograph  them  dock-i-ments  and  you'll 
sneak  'em  back  again,  and  Carroll  wont  know  them  dock- 
i-ments  has  been  out  o'  his  holy  kapin'  till  he  sees  their 
pictures  in  the  Noo  York  Times." 

"And  then  what  'ull  happen  ?"    said  the  Captain. 

"Then  'ull  happen,"  said  Johnny  Fox,  "such  a  ruction 
as  this  town  aint  seen  since  the  draft  riots.  The  great 
city  of  Noo  York  'ull  have  a  spasm  of  reform.  The  air 
of  Noo  York  won't  be  wholesome  at  all,  at  all,  for  the 
boss  and  Tony  Beekman  and  Jim  Carroll  and  Paddy 
Flynn,  and  they'll  seek  for  safety  in  furrin'  parts." 

"And  what  good  'ull  that  do  you,  Johnny  Fox  ?"  asked 
Captain  Bain. 

"Oh,"  said  Johnny,  "when  the  spasm  of  reform  .is  over 
I'll  be  boss." 

"And  what  good  'ull  that  do  me  ?"  said  the  Captain. 

"If  you  keep  straight,  Captain,"  said  Johnny  Fox,  "you 
kin  have  Cronin's  place  in  the  ward.  Now  will  you 
sneak  ?" 

"Yes,  I'll  sneak." 

"To-morrer?" 

"Yes,  to-morrer." 

"Well,  thin,  don't  you  drink  no  more  to-night.  Now 
you've  agreed ;  give  me  your  hand  on  it." 

The  Captain  gave  his  hand  to  Johnny  Fox,  and  when 
he  drew  it  back  he  found  that  he  had  sold  the  boss  for  two 
pieces  of  gold. 

Johnny  Fox  went  out  of  the  side  door  and  Captain 
Bain,  holding  the  money  in  his  hand,  went  out  of  the  sa- 
loon into  the  street  and  staggered  homeward. 

231 


CHAPTER  VII 


THE  heat  of  the  summer  had  been  very  hard  upon 
Mother  Magrath.  Ever  since  Shinar  had  left  her  she  had 
been  failing.  She  missed  the  boy  sadly.  She  sat  in  her 
empty  cabin  and  crooned  and  cried :  "He  ate  o'  me  mate 
and  drunk  o'  me  cup  since  whin  he  was  a  baby,  and  now 
he's  gone  and  left  me  to  die  in  me  cabin  alone,  bad  cess 
to  him  and  to  the  woman  as  sint  him  away." 

Whenever  Keturah  went  into  the  cabin  she  was  greeted 
with  outcries  and  reproaches.  The  old  woman  mourned 
so  for  the  boy  and  wilted  so  under-  the  heat  that  Keturah 
began  to  fear  that  she  would  not  last  through  the  sum- 
mer. And  she  deemed  it  her  duty  to  see  that  whatever 
money  Mrs.  Magrath  had,  should  go  to  Shinar  at  her 
death.  She  knew  that  the  old  woman  had  no  one  near 
enough  of  kin  to  inherit  under  the  law,  and  she  had 
learned  that  if  she  died  without  disposing  of  her  property 
it  would  all  go  to  the  State.  Keturah  set  her  wits  to  work 
to  persuade  her  to  make  a  will  in  favor  of  Shinar.  She 
knew  that  the  one  desire  of  Mother  Magrath  was  to  have 
a  great  funeral  when  she  died.  So  she  approached  her 
from  this  side,  hoping  to  secure  for  Shinar  whatever  re- 
mained, and  Keturah  did  not  think  it  would  be  much,  after 
the  funeral  expenses  were  paid. 

233 


The  Greater  Love 

One  evening,  when  the  heat  was  so  intolerable  that 
no  one  could  stay  in  the  court,  Keturah  took  Mother  Ma- 
grath  out  of  her  cabin  and  walked  slowly  with  her  up  to 
the  City  Hall  Park.  They  found  a  vacant  seat  near  the 
fountain  and  sat  there,  trying  to  believe  that  the  falling 
water  made  the  air  cooler. 

Keturah  held  the  old  woman's  hand  in  hers  and  said : 
"I  wish  we  could  stay  here  all  night,  mother.  It's  so 
much  cooler  than  it  is  down  in  the  court." 

"Ye  'ud  be  after  catchin'  yer  death  if  ye  did,  mavour- 
neen."  When  Mother  Magrath  called  Keturah  mavour- 
neen  it  was  a  sign  that  she  was  pleased  with  her. 

"Well,  mother,"  said  Keturah,  "if  we  did  it  wouldn't 
matter.  We've  got  to  die  sometime,  you  know.  If  not 
to-day,  then  to-morrow." 

"Yis,  me  dear,  yis,  and  it's  not  fer  long  I'll  be  stayin', 
cool  or  no  cool.  Since  the  bye  lift  me,  bad  cess  to  him, 
I  be  hearin'  the  banshee  in  the  cabin.  It  do  be  callin' 
me  sowl,  and  I  'ull  be  havin'  to  go  and  not  a  chick  ner  a 
child  to  care  for  me  buryin'." 

"You  needn't  trouble  about  that,  mother.  When  you 
are  taken  away,  Shinar  and  I  will  see  that  you  have  a 
proper  funeral,"  said  Keturah,  stroking  the  woman's  hair. 

"Ye  'ull  be  afther  doin'  that,  Keturah,  mavourneen  ?" 
said  the  old  woman. 

"Yes,  mother,"  said  Keturah. 

"Ye  'ull  have  me  laid  in  a  white  shroud  ?" 

"Yes,  mother,  if  I  have  to  make  it  myself." 

"And  ye'll  have  no  common  coffin,  but  a  caskit  like 
from  Moriarty's." 

"Yes,  mother,  what  color  shall  the  casket  be  ?  White  ?" 

"Niver,  me  dear,  niver;  de  white  caskit  be  all  out  o' 
fashion.  It's  purple  I  'ull  be  afther  havin',  an'  a  hearse 
wid  plumes  and  twinty  hacks." 

234 


The  Making  of  a  Will 

"Twenty,  mother  ?     Isn't  that  a  great  many  ?" 

"Sure  it  is,  me  child,  and  it's  a  great  many  I  be  want- 
in'.  Whin  Widdy  Murphy  was  buried  she  had  twinty 
hacks  behind  the  hearse  and  I  sid  to  meself,  sid  I,  Til 
have  as  miny  hacks  as  Widdy  Murphy  if  I  has  to  starve 
meself  to  dith  fer  it.'  Make  it  twinty-two,  Keturah,  make 
it  twinty-two." 

"You  will  want  to  be  carried  to  the  church?"  said 
Keturah. 

"Yis,"  answered  the  old  woman,  "and  ye  'ull  buy  a 
mass  fer  me  sowl.  I'm  no  heathenish  prodeshan,  to  be 
thinkin'  o'  goin'  to  Mary  and  the  blissid  saints,  and  the 
praste  not  sayin'  a  mass  fer  me  sowl.  You'll  sure  have 
the  mass,  Keturah?" 

"Yes,  mother,  you  shall  have  the  mass." 

"And  a  wake,"  said  Mother  Magrath,  eagerly. 

"What  kind  of  a  wake,  mother?"  said  Keturah. 

"Ye'll  have  me  in  me  white  shroud  in  me  caskit,  and 
ye'll  ask  me  frinds  and  me  neighbors  to  come  and  wake 
me.  I'll  not  lie  still  in  me  grave  if  ye  don't  give  me 
a  wake,"  said  the  old  woman,  shaking  her  fist  in  Ke- 
turah's  face. 

"Oh,  you  shall  have  your  wake,  mother.  But  I  was 
never  at  a  wake.  What  do  they  do  at  a  wake  ?" 

"Whin  I  do  be  layin'  in  me  caskit,  they  do  be  drinkin' 
to  me  hilth  and  wishin'  me  good  luck  where  I  be  gone  to." 

"What  do  they  drink  ?"  said  Keturah. 

"Whisky,"  said  the  woman. 

"Oh,  not  whisky,  mother.  I  can  never  let  them  drink 
whisky.  Surely  you  don't  want  them  to  drink  whisky  at 
your  wake,"  cried  Keturah. 

"Yis,  yis,"  said  the  old  woman,  excitedly,  "widout 
whisky  it's  no  wake.  You'll  have  whisky,  now  won't  ye, 
Keturah,  darlin'?" 

235 


The  Greater  Love 

Keturah,  who  was  a  Yankee,  answered  this  question 
by  asking  another.  "But  how  is  all  this  funeral  to  be 
paid  for,  Mother  Magrath?  It'll  cost  a  deal  of  money." 

"Oh,  I  'ull  pay  fer  it  all  right.  I've  been  savin'  pinny 
by  pinny  fer  me  funeral." 

"Well  then,  mother,"  said  Keturah,  "you  must  make 
a  will." 

"Make  a  will  ?    Phwat's  that  ?" 

"That  is  a  paper  saying  what  shall  be  done  with  your 
money  after  you  are  dead.  If  you  don't  make  a  will  the 
police  will  come  and  take  all  your  money  and  they  will 
keep  it,  too,"  said  Keturah. 

"The  cops,  did  ye  say?  Niver.  They  be  stalin'  me 
money  all  me  life.  Not  a  pinny  fer  them  whin  I'm  dead." 

"Well,  then,  you  must  make  a  will,"  said  Keturah. 

"You  'ull  be  makin'  it  fer  me,  Keturah,  darlin',  that's 
a  good  girl.  Wont  ye  now?" 

Keturah  took  the  old  woman  down  home  in  the  early 
morning  hours  and  the  next  day,  having  consulted  with 
Mr.  Rosenthal,  she  brought  a  lawyer  to  the  cabin  and 
there  in  the  presence  of  two  witnesses  was  executed  the 
last  will  and  testament  of  Mary  Magrath ;  in  which,  after 
paying  all  debts  and  funeral  expenses,  she  devised  the  rest 
and  residue  of  her  property,  of  which  she  should  die  pos- 
sessed, to  one  Jesse  Shinar,  her  adopted  son,  and  Ke- 
turah was  named  in  the  will  as  sole  executrix.  Keturah 
paid  the  lawyer  for  making  the  will  and  put  it  away  in 
the  safe  in  Mr.  Rosenthal's  office. 

Without  knowing  it,  Shinar  had  become  an  heir. 


236 


CHAPTER  VIII 

BUYING  A  CORONET 

THERE  is  no  place  on  the  surface  of  the  earth  that  has 
greater  charms  than  the  west  porch  of  the  Suydam  Manor 
House.  Places  of  greater  sublimity  there  may  be,  but 
none  of  greater  charm. 

The  Manor  House  lies  upon  the  east  bank  of  the  Hud- 
son river,  halfway  between  Tivoli  and  Cedar  Hill.  It 
stands  on  the  crest  of  the  hill  that  slopes  down  to  the 
river.  It  is  set  far  back  from  the  road  and  is  approached 
through  a  long  avenue,  bordered  by  cedars.  It  is  a  white 
house,  low  and  long,  and  was  built  in  the  early  part  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  It  had  been  the  country  home  of 
the  Suydam  family  for  four  generations.  Dr.  Suydam 
had  inherited  it  from  an  uncle,  and  he  loved  it  better  than 
any  other  place  in  the  world. 

Mrs.  Suydam  preferred  her  more  pretentious  cottage 
at  Newport.  But  to  Newport  Dr.  Suydam  would  never 
go  and  so,  to  save  appearances,  Mrs.  Suydam  had  to  spend 
a  portion  of  each  summer  at  the  Manor  House.  This, 
which  was  a  vexation  to  her,  was  a  delight  to  her  daugh- 
ter Katherine,  who  loved  the  Manor  House  almost  as 
ardently  as  Dr.  Suydam  himself.  She  saw,  what  her 
mother  did  not,  that  this  old  house  on  the  Hudson  had 
about  it  a  distinguished  and  aristocratic  air  that  was  al- 

237 


The  Greater  Love 

together  wanting  to  the  evident  newness  of  the  Newport 
cottage. 

Katherine  had  also  what  her  mother  lacked,  a  soul  to 
appreciate  the  beauties  of  Nature,  and  because  of  this  she 
loved  the  west  porch  of  the  Manor  House.  From  that 
porch  she  looked  out  over  the  wide  waters  of  the  Hudson 
river,  the  white  houses  of  the  village  of  Saugerties,  and 
then  on  beyond  the  foothills  to  the  great  Kaaterskill  or 
Catskill  range  of  mountains. 

No  mountains  in  the  world  are  more  lovable  than 
the  Catskill.  They  have  a  combined  dignity  and  sweet- 
ness which  gives  them  all  the  grace  and  charm  of  a  mag- 
nificent and  beautiful  woman.  As  one  watches  them  he 
is  ashamed,  as  if  he  were  spying  on  a  woman  in  her 
privacy. 

In  the  morning  the  mountain  wakens  and  makes  her 
toilet.  She  bathes  herself  in  the  gray  mist  that  hides  her 
from  prying  eyes.  She  comes  out  of  her  bath  blushing 
rosy  red  in  the  light  of  the  rising  sun.  When  her  toilet 
is  finished  she  goes  about  her  daily  work  as  dainty  as  a 
bride  on  the  bridal  day.  Her  one  occupation  is  to  make 
herself  lovely.  She  creates  herself  ornaments  out  of  cloud 
shadows;  she  is  capricious  and  changes  her  dress  with 
the  changing  hours.  Now  she  is  clothed  in  the  gray  garb 
of  the  nun,  and  now  in  the  purple  of  the  princess,  and 
again  in  the  green  of  the  huntress. 

The  storms  that  break  over  her  only  give  her  the 
added  beauty  which  tears  give  to  the  eyes  of  a  woman. 
She  bursts  into  a  passion  of  thunder  sobs,  only  to  smile 
more  charmingly  when  the  passion  has  spent  itself  in  re- 
freshing rain. 

Like  all  women,  these  mountains  are  at  their  best  in 
the  evening.  Then  they  dress  for  the  grand  function  of 

238 


Buying  a  Coronet 

the  day.  They  are  to  dance  with  the  clouds  and  make 
love  to  the  stars.  For  this  they  clothe  themselves  in  crim- 
son and  crown  themselves  with  gold.  And  when  the 
evening  gayeties  are  over  they  cover  themselves  with 
darkness  and  go  to  sleep.  Sitting  on  the  west  porch  of  the 
Manor  House  and  looking  out  at  their  dark  and  massive 
forms,  one  can  almost  think  that  he  can  hear  them  breathe 
and  has  for  them  the  awe  and  reverence  which  the  pure 
soul  has  for  a  sleeping  woman. 

Who  once  has  loved  these  mountains  can  never  have 
a  second  love.  Alp  and  Appenine  are  cold,  and  not  for 
a  moment  to  be  compared  in  sympathy  and  loveliness  with 
these  bewitching  mountains  of  the  west. 

Katherine  Bullet  loved  these  mountains  and  made 
them  her  confidants.  They  were  now  her  chosen  wit- 
nesses at  the  time  of  her  betrothal.  She  had  come  to 
the  Manor  House  to  entertain  and  accept  a  proposal  of 
marriage.  As  she  sat  down  on  the  west  porch  waiting 
for  her  lover,  who  was  to  arrive  by  the  evening  train, 
there  was  about  her  no  air  of  blushing  expectancy.  Her 
brow  was  in  a  frown  and  her  lips  were  in  a  pout,  as  if 
she  were  dissatisfied  with  what  she  was  about  to  do.  She 
had  sat  for  an  hour  and  more  watching  the  mountains 
with  a  feeling  of  shame.  They  were  quiet,  content  with 
their  station  in  life,  while  she  was  restless,  eager,  ready 
to  give  herself  to  a  man  whom  she  did  not  love,  for  the 
sake  of  higher  social  position. 

She  was  about  to  give  her  virgin  soul  for  a  coronet 
and  that  virgin  soul  shrank  from  the  sacrifice,  as  from 
a  profanation. 

As  she  was  meditating  with  much  discomfort  on  this 
treason  to  her  higher  self,  she  heard  the  sound  of  wheels 
on  the  avenue,  and  a  moment  later  found  herself  in  the 
arms  of  her  dearest  friend,  Florence  Beekman. 

239 


The  Greater  Love 

"Oh,  Kathe,"  exclaimed  Florence,  who  was  as  dark 
as  Katherine  was  fair.  "Oh,  Kathe!  is  it  really  so?" 

"Is  what  really  so,  you  goosie?" 

"You  know  what  I  mean.    Is  he  coming?" 

"To  what  particular  he,  among  the  infinite  number 
of  possible  he's,  do  you  refer?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Florence,  "you  can  afford  to  be  mys- 
terious and  sarcastic  when  you  know  that  the  Marquis  of 
Dipford  is  coming  to  lay  at  your  feet  the  coronet  of 
Senlac." 

"The  Marquis  of  Dipford  is  coming,  I  believe,  but  the 
coronet  of  Senlac  is  not  his  to  lay  at  any  one's  feet.  His 
father,  the  Duke  of  Senlac,  is  alive,  and  may  outlive  this 
son  as  he  has  outlived  his  elder  brother,  and  then  who  will 
be  Duchess  of  Senlac?  Certainly  not  the  widow  of  Dip- 
ford.  Dipford  is  only  a  title  by  courtesy,  and  the  widow 
of  Dipford  will  only  be  Lady  Fitz  Osborn,  even  if  she  is 
Lady  and  not  plain  Mrs.  Fitz  Osborn." 

"Oh,  you  wretched  girl,"  cried  Florence,  "you  are 
not  so  much  as  engaged  to  Dipford  and  here  you  are 
talking  about  being  his  widow." 

"It  is  well  to  consider  possibilities  when  you  are  buy- 
ing futures.  If  I  give  five  millions  down  for  the  coronet 
of  Senlac  and  then  the  market  is  short  and  the  coronet  is 
never  delivered,  do  I  get  my  money  back?  I  guess  not. 
My  money  has  gone  to  save  the  Senlac  estates  from  the 
hammer  and  I  get  nothing  but  plain  Mrs.  Fitz  Osborn,  and 
some  haughty  English  woman  comes  in  for  the  circle  of 
gold.  I  tell  you  this  buying  of  coronets  is  risky  business." 

But  you  will  not  refuse  the  Marquis,  will  you, 
Kathe?" 

"Refuse  him?  Oh,  no.  Dipford  is  not  much  of  a 
man,  but  he  is  the  best  the  market  affords,  and,  poor  as  he 
is,  he  will  do  to  hang  my  social  ambitions  on." 

240 


Buying1  a  Coronet 

"But,  Kathe,  dear,  you  love  him  just  a  little  bit, 
don't  you  ?" 

"Love  him,  Florence,  love  that  manikin?  What  girl 
talks  of  loving  to-day,  and  what  is  there  for  her  to  love  ? 
I  could  love,"  said  Katherine,  rising  and  pacing  the 
porch,  "I  could  love  some  great  Irish  king  who  would 
crush  me  in  his  arms  and  smother  my  mouth  with  his  red 
beard.  But  love  these  worn-out  roues  of  a  worn-out 
social  class.  Never.  A  woman  who  could  love  them, 
must  come  to  them  as  they  come  to  her,  with  her  forces 
spent  in  dissipation.  It  is  a  shame  to  waste  fresh  woman- 
hood upon  such  a  stale  manhood." 

"Now,  Kathe,"  said  Florence,  "don't  ride  quite  'such 
a  high  horse.  Did  you  never  see  a  man  you  could  love?" 

"Yes,"  said  Katherine,  "one." 

"Who,  pray  ?"  said  Florence. 

"Wilkins,"  said  Katherine. 

"What,  Wilkins  the  coachman?"  cried  Florence, 
laughing. 

"Yes,  Wilkins  the  coachman,  and  you  needn't  laugh. 
Wilkins  is  a  man  with  strong  arms  and  mighty 
thighs,  and  then,  Wilkins  can  do  something.  He  can 
drive  horses.  But  these  little  men  without  arm  or  thigh 
or  calf,  who  lisp  and  drawl,  whose  highest  ambition  is 
croquet  or  tennis;  what  woman  is  not  ashamed  to  look 
at  them,  much  less  love  them  ?" 

"Well,  my  dear,"  said  Florence,  "will  you  run  away 
with  Wilkins  and  give  us  a  charming  sensation  in  high 
life?" 

"Impossible,  impossible ;  a  better  woman  than  I  se- 
cured the  felicity  of  Wilkins  years  ago,  and  she  is  the 
mother  of  ten.  No,  I  who  crave  the  fierce  embraces  of 
an  Irish  king  must  put  up  with  the  mild  attentions  of  an 
English  marquis." 

241 


The  Greater  Love 

"And  there  is  not  a  girl  in  America,"  said  Florence, 
"  who  doesn't  envy  you  these  mild  attentions." 

"There,  there,  my  dear,  there  you  have  it.  I  marry 
Dipford  that  I  may  wave  my  hand  from  my  ducal  car- 
riage at  the  Van  Dorns,  the  Van  Vechtens,  and  the 
Schuylers.  I  have  played  the  game  against  them  and 
I've  beaten  them.  Now  I  must  pay  the  price  and  the 
price  is  my  body,  my  soul,  and  my  fortune." 

"But  Kathe,  you  know  down  in  your  secret  heart  that 
Dipford  isn't  half  bad." 

"I  know,"  said  Katherine,  "that  Dipford  is  as  good 
as  his  kind.  He  is  twenty-two.  He  has  run  his  course 
for  four  if  not  six  years.  He  has  about  used  up  all  the 
strength  he  ever  had.  But  I  guess  I  can  groom  him  up 
and  make  an  English  statesman  of  him.  I  reckon  there 
is  enough  left  of  him  for  that." 

"You  wretched  girl,  how  you  talk !"  said  Florence. 

"I  am  a  wretched  girl!  No  one  more  wretched  at 
this  moment  in  all  the  world.  But  come,  let  us  go  and 
dress  before  his  lordship  arrives." 


242 


CHAPTER  IX 

A  SORRY  BARGAIN 

WHEN  Katherine  came  down  ready  to  receive  her 
suitor,  she  looked  the  duchess  that  she  was  to  be.  Her 
evening  gown  was  a  sea-green  silk,  which  broke  into 
ripples  of  lace  about  her  bosom.  Out  of  this  sea  foam  her 
shoulders  rose,  contrasting  softly  with  the  whiteness  of 
the  lace.  Had  the  lace  not  been  there  one  would  have 
thought  the  shoulders  white,  but  with  the  lace  about  them 
they  revealed  the  delicate  pink  of  the  seashell. 

From  the  shoulders  the  neck  shot  up  slender  and  long, 
holding  a  head  as  proud  as  the  head  of  any  duchess  within 
the  four  seas.  And  above  it  all,  the  great  coils  of  reddish 
hair  that  changed  its  shade  with  every  change  of  light. 

It  did  seem  a  pity  that  this  magnificent  Irish  girl 
should  not  be  the  bride  of  some  old  Irish  king  and  breed 
O'Briens  for  the  throne. 

When  Katherine  and  Florence  entered  the  drawing 
room  they  found  the  dinner  party  waiting  for  them.  The 
distinguished  guest  of  the  evening  was  the  Marquis  of 
Dipford.  This  heir  to  one  of  the  oldest  and  proudest 
titles  in  the  English  peerage  did  not  altogether  belie  his 
descent.  He  had  about  him  an  air  of  elegant  insolence, 
which  is  the  characteristic  of  those  who  hold  high  places 
in  the  world.  It  was  the  air  of  a  man  who  was  accus- 

243 


The  Greater  Love 

tomed  to  command  and  to  be  obeyed.  In  person  the  Mar- 
quis was  not  altogether  unattractive.  He  was  tall  and 
slender.  His  hair  and  side  whiskers  were  the  hair  and 
whiskers  of  the  English  blonde,  almost  flaxen  in  color. 
He  had  the  long,  thin,  aristocratic  nose.  So  far  good,  but 
his  face  ended  badly  in  a  weak  mouth  and  chin  and  was 
of  an  ashy  paleness,  showing  a  poor  condition  of  the 
blood.  His  whole  figure  was  emaciated,  and  Katherine 
well  might  doubt  the  safety  of  her  investment. 

As  she  entered  she  greeted  the  Marquis  coldly,  and 
taking  his  arm  went  out  with  him  to  dinner.  It  was  a 
family  party  and  the  dinner  was  a  quiet  one. 

After  the  coffee  had  been  served  in  the  drawing  room 
Katherine  and  the  Marquis  passed  out  into  the  grounds 
behind  the  house.  It  was  a  beautiful  summer  night.  The 
moon  was  full  and  the  river  and  the  mountains  were  seen 
in  that  mysterious  light  which  reveals  while  it  conceals. 

The  whip-poor-wills  were  sending  out  their  melan- 
choly cry  from  the  hillsides,  and  the  crickets  were  chirrup- 
ing in  the  grass.  Katherine  stood  still  for  a  moment,  and 
then  broke  the  silence  saying:  "How  do  you  like  our 
country  ?  Don't  you  think  this  is  a  beautiful  place  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,  this  is  all  right,  but  your  country's  awfully 
new,  you  know,"  said  the  Marquis.  "You  ought  to  see  the 
West." 

"Oh,  I  have  seen  the  West ;  but  what  did  you  see  there 
that  attracted  your  attention  ?" 

"Stumps,  and  what  you  call  saloons.  Drinking  places, 
you  know." 

"Yes,  I  know ;  but  how  did  you  come  to  think  so  much 
of  stumps  and  saloons?'' 

"Well,  you  know  we  would  ride  for  hours  and  hours 
through  the  country  and  nothing  but  stumps,  then  we 

244 


A  Sorry  Bargain 

would  come  to  a  town,  nothing  but  saloons.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  the  Americans  had  cut  down  all  their  trees  to 
build  saloons?" 

Katherine  Bullet  laughed  and  said:  "You  will  not 
carry  away  a  very  high  idea  of  our  country,  will  you  ?" 

"Oh,  I've  seen  something  beside  stumps  and  saloons." 

"What?"  said  Katherine. 

"Oh,  I've  seen  some  of  the  finest  horses  and  women  in 
the  world." 

"Indeed !   And  which  did  you  admire  the  most  ?" 

"The  women.  You  have  the  finest  women  in  the  world 
here  in  America." 

"You  flatter  us,"  said  Katherine. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  the  young  man,  "I  mean  every  word 
I  say  and  more.  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  you,  yourself,  are 
the  finest  woman  I  have  seen  in  my  life." 

"Your  lordship  does  me  honor,"  said  Katherine,  with 
a  sweeping  courtesy. 

"I  mean  to  do  you  honor  if  you  will  let  me.  I  came 
here  on  purpose  to  ask  you  to  be  my  wife." 

"Your  wife?"  said  Katherine,  looking  away  over  the 
river  to  the  mountain. 

"Yes,  my  wife.  I  liked  you  the  very  first  time  I  saw 
you.  You  are  a  stunning  girl.  I  wish  you  would  let  me 
write  to  my  father,  the  Duke  of  Senlac,  that  you  accept 
my  proposal.  I  know  he  will  be  pleased." 

"May  I  ask  by  what  name  your  lordship  is  called  in 
your  own  family?" 

"My  name?"  said  the  Marquis. 

"Yes,  your  name,  surely  they  do  not  call  you  my  lord 
all  the  time." 

"My  name  is  Reginald  Maurice  Thomas  Henry  Fitz 
Osborn,  Marquis  of  Dipford  and  Baron  Brockton." 

245 


The  Greater  Love 

"Merciful  me,"  exclaimed  Katherine  looking  the  young 
man  up  and  down,  "are  you  all  that  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  Marquis,  blushing. 

"Well,"  said  Katherine,  "if  I  am  to  consider  your 
proposal  I  must  have  a  shorter  name  than  that.  I  could 
never  think  of  saying  'yes'  or  'no'  to  Reginald  Maurice 
Thomas  Henry  Fitz  Osborn,  Marquis  of  Dipford  and 
Baron  Brockton." 

"Oh,  you  needn't  call  all  that  every  time,  you  know. 
At  home  they  call  me  Tommy." 

"There  now,"  said  Katherine,  "that  is  something  like. 
Well,  Tommy,  you  want  me  to  be  your  wife?" 

"I  certainly  do,"  said  Tommy. 

"Why?"  said  Katherine. 

"Because  I  like  you  better  than  any  girl  I  have  ever 
known." 

"You  are  sure  of  that?" 

"Perfectly." 

"Before  you  English  people  marry  you  make  what 
you  call  settlements  do  you  not?" 

"Yes,  but  my  friend,  Mr.  Du  Pre,  will  attend  to  that, 
shall  I  send  him  to  your  father?" 

"No,  send  him  to  me." 

"To  you?" 

"Yes,  to  me,"  said  Katherine.  "We  American  girls 
attend  to  our  own  business. 

"I  will  send  him  in  the  morning.  I  may  say  to  him 
that  you  will  consider  my  proposition  ?"  said  the  Marquis. 

"Yes,"  said  Katherine. 

"Thanks,"  said  the  Marquis.  "May  I  ?"  and  he  came 
to  the  girl  holding  out  his  arms. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "you  may  kiss  my  hand,"  and  she 
held  out  her  hand. 

246 


A  Sorry  Bargain 

"Thanks,"  he  said,  brushing  her  hand  with  his  lips. 
"We  always  kiss  the  Queen's  hand  at  court  receptions." 

Without  further  words  Katherine  turned  and  went 
into  the  house. 


247 


CHAPTER  X 
A  WOMAN'S  FATE 

THE  morning  after  the  ardent  love  scene  described  in 
the  previous  chapter,  found  Katherine  Bullet  sitting  on  the 
west  porch  of  the  Manor  House,  watching  the  sunlight 
on  the  mountains.  The  clear  air  brought  the  great  hills 
very  near  to  her  and  as  she  looked  at  them  she  wished  that 
she  might  go  and  hide  herself  in  their  depths,  and  live  a 
mountain  maiden  all  her  days.  Her  soul  was  crying  for 
the  simplicity  of  nature. 

As  she  was  musing  on  the  hard  fate  that  compelled 
her  to  live  an  artificial  life  with  artificial  people,  her  revery 
was  disturbed  by  the  presence  of  Dr.  Suydam  on  the 
porch.  He  came  to  where  she  was  sitting  and  gently  laid 
his  hand  upon  her  head,  saying:  "I  hear,  my  dear,  that 
you  are  to  be  congratulated.  You  have  accepted  the  pro- 
posal of  the  Marquis  of  Dipford." 

"Hardly  that,  Daddy,"  said  Katherine,  looking  up,  "I 
have  consented  to  consider  the  young  man's  proposition. 
Whether  I  accept  it  or  not  will  depend  altogether  upon 
the  terms  which  he  offers."  There  was  a  weariness  in 
Katherine's  voice  that  stirred  a  chord  of  pity  in  the  heart 
of  Dr.  Suydam. 

"Is  not  that  rather  a  cold  way  of  considering  a  pro- 
posal of  marriage  ?"  said  he. 

249 


The  Greater  Love 

"Not  when  the  proposal  comes  from  such  a  man  as 
Dipford  to  such  a  woman  as  I  am.  A  proposal  of  mar- 
riage between  us  has  nothing  sentimental  about  it.  It  is  a 
matter  of  cold  business." 

"Why  so,  my  dear  ?  You  are  the  very  woman  to  rouse 
sentiment  in  the  heart  of  a  man.  You  are  a  woman  that 
any  man  might  love." 

"Yes,"  said  Katherine,  looking  wistfully  over  at  the 
mountains.  "Any  man  might,  but  any  man  wont." 

"Why  not,  my  child  ?"  said  the  Doctor,  "why  not,  why 
should  you  not  inspire  love  as  well  as  any  woman  in  the 
world?" 

"Because,"  answered  the  girl,  rising  and  walking  to 
the  front  of  the  porch,  and  turning  her  back  on  the  moun- 
tains, "because  I  am  not  a  woman,  I  am  twenty  millions  of 
dollars,  and  twenty  millions  of  dollars  may  inspire  greed, 
avarice,  envy,  hatred,  and  malice,  but  never  love." 

"But  you  do  not  think,  Kathe  dear,  that  your  fortune 
shuts  you  out  from  all  human  affection?" 

"Yes,  it  does,  Daddy,  yes  it  does.  It  shuts  me  out 
from  all  human  affection  except  yours,"  and  the  girl  went 
over  and  kissed  the  Doctor  on  the  cheek. 

"If  you  think  in  that  way  why  do  you  not  get  rid  of 
your  fortune?"  said  the  Doctor,  taking  her  hand. 

"You  might  as  well  ask  me,"  said  the  girl,  "why  I 
don't  get  rid  of  my  head.  I  was  born  with  one  as  well 
as  with  the  other.  Take  my  head  or  my  fortune  away 
and  I  am  not  I." 

"There,  my  dear,  you  are  mistaken.  Your  head  is 
your  dear,  lovely  self,  but  your  fortune  is  simply  an  acci- 
dent of  your  life,  a  train  of  circumstances  you  carry 
about  with  you." 

"Yes,"  said  the  girl,  "but  I  am  old  enough  to  know 

250 


A  Woman's  Fate 

that  our  fate  depends  far  more  on  our  circumstances  than 
on  ourselves,  no  matter  how  dear  and  lovely  we  may  be. 
Do  you  suppose  if  I  were  only  my  dear,  lovely  self  that 
the  Marquis  of  Dipford  would  make  a  proposal  of  mar- 
riage to  me?  Don't  you  believe  it,  Daddy.  He  might 
make  me  a  proposal,  but  it  would  not  be  of  marriage. 
He  might  want  me,  I  think  he  would,  but  not  for  his 
wife." 

"But,  Kathe  dear,  under  these  conditions,  why  marry 
at  all?  Why  not  devote  yourself  and  your  fortune  to 
charity  and  good  works?" 

"Heaven  deliver  me  from  such  a  fate  as  that!  A 
fashionable  slummer;  the  prey  of  designing  parsons  and 
crazy  cranks.  Making  myself  lady  bountiful  to  the  poor 
and  turning  honest,  hard-working  folk  into  paupers. 
No,  thank  you,  anything  but  that.  No,  Daddy  mine,  I 
am  shut  in  by  hard  fate  to  just  one  calling.  I  must  play 
the  social  game,  or  not  play  at  all." 

"But,  Katherine,  you  can  surely  satisfy  your  social 
ambitions  in  this  country.  There  are  men  of  wealth  and 
position  who  would  be  glad  to  marry  you." 

"Wealth  and  position,"  cried  Katherine,  scornfully, 
"to  marry  wealth  would  be  simply  to  add  money  to 
money,  which  when  one  has  twenty  millions  is  a  tiresome 
and  useless  process,  and  as  for  position  I  have  that 
already ;  thanks  to  you,  Daddy,  I  am  already  the  swellest 
of  the  swells.  No,  Daddy,  no,  I  must  have  new  worlds  to 
conquer,  or  I  must  die." 

"And  do  you  think  you  can  conquer  by  means  of  the 
Marquis  of  Dipford?"  said  the  Doctor,  smiling. 

"Yes,"  answered  Katherine,  "I  do.  In  the  first  place, 
when  I  marry  Dipford  I  will  enter  the  most  select  social 
circle  in  the  world.  I  shall  be  a  member  of  the  aristocracy 

251 


The  Greater  Love 

of  England.  Then  if  I  can  keep  Dipford  alive,  I  will,  in 
due  time,  exercise  great  influence  as  the  wife  of  a  leading 
member  of  Parliament  and  a  Cabinet  Minister,  and  by 
and  bye  be  Duchess  of  Senlac." 

"You  expect  Dipford,"  said  the  Doctor  with  a  merry 
twinkle  in  his  eye,  "to  reach  such  distinction  in  the 
state  ?" 

"Yes,  if  he  marries  me,  I  do,"  said  Katherine,  "Dip- 
ford  isn't  half  a  fool.  All  he  needs  is  proper  grooming. 
I  have  detected  in  him  a  power  of  observation  and  a 
faculty  for  epigrammatic  remark  which  will  make  his 
fortune  in  English  public  life." 

"Indeed,"  said  the  Doctor,  "from  my  little  knowledge 
of  the  young  man  I  never  should  have  believed  him  capa- 
ble of  any  great  mental  effort." 

"It  isn't  mental  effort,  it  is  just  genius.  Last  night, 
when  I  asked  him  what  he  saw  out  West  he  answered 
stumps  and  saloons.  Now,  that  I  call  genius.  Thousands 
of  tourists  have  traveled  across  the  American  Continent 
and  have  seen  the  mountains  and  the  rivers  and  the  broad 
prairies,  but  this  young  man  saw  stumps  and  saloons,  and 
when  you  come  to  think  of  it  that  is  just  what  you  do 
see.  Miles  and  miles  of  stumps  and  hundreds  and  hun- 
dreds of  saloons.  And  Dipford  went  on  to  draw  a  con- 
clusion from  what  he  saw.  He  said  that  the  Americans 
had  cut  down  all  the  trees  to  build  saloons,  and  so  in  a 
simple  sentence  Dipford  laid  bare  the  secret  of  American 
life.  We  have  destroyed  the  forest  to  build  the  saloon. 
A  young  man  who  can  say  things  like  that  has  a  future." 

"And  you  mean  to  marry  in  order  to  share  Dipford's 
triumphs  ?" 

"I  mean  to  marry  him  in  order  to  make  his  triumphs. 
Without  me,  Dipford  would  be  simply  a  string  of  ciphers 

252 


A  Woman's  Fate 

as  long  as  his  titles,  with  me  he  will  be  that  same  string 
of  ciphers  with  the  figure  one  before  them." 

"Take  care,  Katherine;  remember  what  Wolsey  said 
to  Cromwell.  'Fling  away  ambition.'  " 

"Yes,  and  fling  away  all  there  is  left  me  in  the  world." 

"You  despair  of  love,  then?" 

"Yes,  love  is  frightened  away  by  my  fortune.  He  can 
never  reach  the  heart  through  twenty  millions  of  dollars." 

Here  the  conversation  was  interrupted  by  Simmons, 
the  butler,  who  brought  Katherine  a  card  bearing  the 
name  of  Archibald  Du  Pre. 


CHAPTER  XI 

FOR  SO   MUCH 

WHEN  Katherine  entered  the  library  and  her  visitor 
rose  up  to  meet  her  she  took  a  step  backward  in  surprise. 
Knowing  him  to  be  the  attorney  of  the  Marquis  of  Dip- 
ford,  she  had  expected  to  see  an  elderly  man,  with  a  bald 
head  and  glasses.  She  found  herself,  however,  in  the 
presence  of  a  young  man,  not  more  than  thirty  years  old, 
tall,  slender,  alert,  with  dark  hair  and  eyes,  a  man  of  the 
French,  rather  than  of  the  English  type.  There  ran  in 
his  veins,  as  Katherine  saw  at  once,  not  the  cold  blood  of 
the  Saxon,  but  the  hot  blood  of  the  Gaul. 

When  he  rose  to  meet  her  the  eyes  of  the  stranger 
manifested  the  admiration  which  he  could  not  conceal, 
and  Katherine  returned  his  gaze  with  one  equally  admir- 
ing. They  stood  for  a  moment  in  silence,  Katherine 
thinking  to  herself:  "What  a  pity!  What  a  pity!  this 
should  not  be  the  attorney  of  the  Marquis  of  Dipford, 
but  the  Marquis  of  Dipford  himself;"  then  blushing  at 
her  silence,  she  said,  "Mr.  Du  Pre,  I  believe?" 

"At  your  service,"  he  answered,  bowing. 

"You  wish  to  see  me  ?"  asked  the  lady. 

"Yes,"  he  answered.  "I  come  from  the  Marquis  of 
Dipford  who  tells  me  that  you  have  consented  to  receive 
a  proposal  of  marriage  from  him." 

255 


The  Greater  Love 

"That  is  true,  I  have  consented  to  consider  such  a  pro- 
posal," said  Katherine. 

"May  I  say,"  said  the  gentleman,  still  standing,  "now 
that  I  see  you  I  consider  the  Marquis  exceeding  fortunate 
to  win  the  affection  of  a  lady  of  so  much  beauty,  and 
unless  her  face  belies  her,  of  so  much  goodness." 

"And,"  added  Katherine,  "of  so  much  wealth,"  smil- 
ing and  seating  herself,  and  motioning  Mr.  Du  Pre  to  a 
chair. 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  merry  twinkle  in  his  eye,  and 
said :  "I  have  been  told  that  the  American  ladies  are 
cynical." 

"Truthful,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Du  Pre,"  answered 
Katherine,  "we  are  both  aware  that  were  it  not  for  my 
wealth  I  would  never  be  thought  of  as  the  wife  of  the 
Marquis  of  Dipford,  and  to  be  perfectly  frank  were  it 
not  for  his  rank  I  would  never  think  of  the  Marquis  of 
Dipford  in  the  light  of  a  husband." 

"I  presume,"  said  Mr.  Du  Pre,  "that  worldly  con- 
siderations do  necessarily  enter  into  such  a  proposal  as 
the  Marquis  of  Dipford  has  made  to  you.  But  let  me 
assure  you  that  above  and  beyond  all  that,  the  Marquis 
has  for  you  the  greatest  respect  and  admiration.  His 
feelings  are  deeply  engaged.  He  desires  this  alliance,  not 
merely  from  motives  of  interest,  but  from  motives  of 
affection." 

"I  am  sure,"  answered  Katherine,  "that  the  Marquis 
is  very  kind  to  prefer  an  American  girl  to  all  the  beauties 
of  England." 

"The  Marquis,  I  assure  you,  has  grounds  for  his 
preference.  May  I  be  so  bold  as  to  say  that  there  is  not 
in  all  England  a  more  beautiful  woman  than  yourself, 
none  upon  whose  head  the  coronet  of  Senlac  would  rest 
more  worthily." 

256 


For  So  Much 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  answered  Katherine,  "but  do  you 
not  think  that  our  conversation  is  rather  inconsequent? 
It  is  hardly  necessary  to  tell  a  woman  that  she  is  beauti- 
ful. That  is  the  first  article  of  her  creed.  Skeptic  in  all 
else,  she  believes  in  her  own  beauty  with  all  the  zeal  of  a 
fanatic.  I  think  we  can,  if  you  please  take  that  for 
granted,  and  putting  aside  all  sentimentality  pass  on  to 
the  business  that  brings  us  together.  I  understand  that 
the  estate  of  Senlac  is  heavily  incumbered." 

"I  regret  to  say  that  it  is,"  answered  Mr.  Du  Pre, 
"the  indebtedness  has  been  accumulating  for  a  long  time, 
until  now  the  interest  on  the  indebtedness  almost  equals 
the  income  from  the  estate.  The  Duke  of  Senlac  is  really 
a  poor  man." 

"The  family,  I  understand,  is  one  of  the  oldest  in 
England,"  said  Katherine. 

"Yes,"  answered  Mr.  Du  Pre,  "the  Fitz  Osborns  came 
over  with  William  from  Normandy,  and  Hugh  Fitz 
Osborn  was  created  Duke  of  Senlac  immediately  after 
the  Conquest.  He  married  a  niece  of  Harold,  the  last  of 
the  English  kings,  so  that  the  family  of  Fitz  Osborn 
unite  in  one  stream  the  noblest  blood  of  the  Norman  and 
the  English  races." 

"Indeed,"  said  Katherine,  "do  you  not  think  the 
stream  is  rather  thin  and  watery  in  the  veins  of  the  Mar- 
quis of  Dipford?" 

"Perhaps,  perhaps,"  answered  Mr.  Du  Pre,  smiling. 
"The  Marquis  is  not  as  robust  as  we  should  like  him  to 
be,  but  he  is  very  young  and  will  grow  stronger  as  he 
grows  older." 

"That  does  not  necessarily  follow,"  said  Katherine, 
"but  we  are  wandering  from  the  business  in  hand.  What 
did  you  say  were  the  extent  of  the  incumbrances  resting 
upon  the  estate  of  Senlac?" 

257 


The  Greater  Love 

"I  cannot  answer  that  question  exactly,  but  I  am 
afraid  they  are  not  less  than  one  million  pounds." 

"That  is  a  large  sum  of  money,"  said  Katherine. 

"Very  large,"  said  Mr.  Du  Pre. 

"But  not  so  large  that  I  cannot  relieve  the  estate  of 
its  burden  should  I  enter  the  family  as  the  wife  of  the 
Marquis  of  Dipford.  I  will  be  perfectly  frank  with  you. 
I  am  a  woman  of  very  large  wealth.  I  own  one-third  of 
an  undivided  share  in  my  father's  estate;  this  estate  is 
estimated  at  sixty  millions  of  dollars,  and  is  invested  so 
that  it  is  yielding  ten  per  cent,  per  annum  on  its  valuation. 
My  income  from  the  estate  is  about  two  millions  a  year. 
I  have  not,  of  course,  been  able  to  spend  this  income,  and 
beside  my  undivided  share  in  my  father's  estate  I  have 
about  six  million  dollars  invested  in  various  securities  in 
my  own  name." 

"You  certainly,"  said  Mr.  Du  Pre,  "have  been  greatly 
blessed  by  fortune." 

"Blessed  or  cursed  as  you  please,"  said  Katherine, 
"the  fortune  is  there.  It  is  piling  up  every  day.  It  is 
not  doing  me,  nor,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  any  one  else  any 
good.  I  must  make  some  use  of  it,  and  the  only  thing 
I  can  think  of  is  to  use  it  to  secure  for  myself  the  highest 
possible  place  in  the  social  world,  in  which  I  am  con- 
demned by  my  fortune  to  live." 

"I  fear,"  said  Mr.  Du  Pre,  "that  you  do  not  find  per- 
fect satisfaction  in  the  social  world." 

"I  do  not,"  said  Katherine,  "but  so  far  as  I  can  see  no 
one  finds  any  great  satisfaction  in  any  world,  but  whether 
we  like  it  or  not  we  have  to  live  in  the  world  in  which  we 
find  ourselves.  I  belong  to  the  world  of  wealth,  and  can 
with  wealth  command  high  social  position.  It  is  all  my 
world  has  to  give  me,  and  I  take  it." 

258 


For  So  Much 

"Have  you  never  thought  of  love  ?"  said  Mr.  Du  Pre, 
ardently. 

"Sentiment  and  money,  Mr.  Du  Pre,  are  not  near  of 
kin  to  each  other.  We  who  are  born  to  wealth  and  station 
must  not  consider  our  hearts.  We  must  look  to  our 
wealth  and  our  station,  so  again,  I  say,  if  you  please,  to 
business.  If  I  accept  the  proposal  of  the  Marquis  of  Dip- 
ford  it  will  be  my  first  duty  and  pleasure  to  relieve  the 
estate  of  Senlac  of  all  indebtedness." 

"This  is,  indeed,  the  princely  act  of  a  princely 
woman,"  said  Mr.  Du  Pre. 

"But,"  said  Katherine,  "this  is  not  unconditional. 
The  Marquis  of  Dipford  is  not  strong.  His  elder  brother, 
I  understand  recently  died  of  consumption.  Is  that  so?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Mr.  Du  Pre.  "Consumption  brought 
on  by  dissipation."  Mr.  Du  Pre  was  silent  for  a  moment, 
and  then  answered,  blushing,  "The  late  Marquis  of  Dip- 
ford  was  ruined,  not  to  say  killed,  by  a  designing  and 
wicked  woman." 

"I  fear,"  said  Katherine,  "that  the  present  Marquis 
has  not  escaped  altogether  from  the  dangers  that  de- 
stroyed his  brother." 

"He  has  not,"  said  Mr.  Du  Pre.  "It  was  to  save  him 
from  the  same  woman  that  he  was  brought  to  America, 
and  I  beg  of  you,  Miss  Bullet,  to  use  that  influence  which 
you  have  over  the  young  man  to  deliver  him  from  an  evil 
power  that  is  bent  on  his  destruction,  and  save  one  of  the 
oldest  and  proudest  families  of  England  from  extinction." 

"It  is  a  sorry  task,"  said  Katherine  sadly,  "but  I  will 
try.  I  will  pay  the  indebtedness  of  the  estate  of  Senlac 
on  condition  that  Dipford  House  and  the  estate  immedi- 
ately connected  with  it  is  conveyed  to  me,  and  upon  the 
further  condition  that  a  mortgage  covering  the  whole 

259 


The  Greater  Love 

estate  of  Senlac  is  made  out  in  my  name.  This  is  to  pre- 
vent any  further  borrowing  by  the  present  Duke  or  the 
Marquis  of  Dipford,  and  in  consideration  of  this  mort- 
gage I  will  grant  to  the  present  Duke  an  income  of  fifty 
thousand  pounds  and  to  the  Marquis  of  Dipford  an  in- 
come of  twenty  thousand  pounds." 

"I  will  lay  your  propositions  before  the  Duke,  and  am 
sure  that  he  will  consider  them  most  favorably,  and  I 
hope  it  will  soon  be  my  pleasure  to  welcome  you  as  its 
future  mistress  to  the  Castle  of  Senlac,"  said  Mr.  Du  Pre. 

"If  you  will  call  upon  my  lawyers,  Hamilton,  Chose 
and  Hamilton,  they  will  have  the  settlements  ready  within 
a  week,"  said  Katherine. 

"Thank  you,  I  will  call,"  and  Mr.  Du  Pre  bowed  and 
left  the  house. 

Katherine  went  onto  the  west  porch  of  the  Manor 
House,  and  said  to  Dr.  Suydam,  who  was  waiting  for 
her: 

"Well,  Daddy,  I've  bought  a  dukedom." 

"Have  you,  my  dear?    For  how  much?" 

"Oh,  for  so  much.  I  have  given  for  it  everything  I 
have  but  my  heart." 


260 


CHAPTER  XII 

YES,  YOUR  GRACE 

THE  summer  was  over  and  gone,  but  it  was  summer 
time  still  in  the  Suydam  Mansion  upon  the  avenue.  In 
that  favored  spot  art  had  triumphed  over  nature.  Novem- 
ber winds  were  bitter  in  the  streets  and  November  rains 
were  cold,  but  in  this  house  the  air  was  soft  and  warm, 
and  the  flowers  were  blooming  gaily.  Mrs.  Suydam  was 
taking  a  last  look  at  her  rooms,  before  leaving  them  to 
dress  for  dinner. 

These  rooms  were  decorated  for  one  of  the  greatest 
social  events  that  had  ever  occurred  in  the  City  of  New 
York.  The  Duke  of  Senlac  was  to  dine  with  Dr.  and 
Mrs.  Suydam,  and  thus  publicly  celebrate  the  engage- 
ment of  his  eldest  living  son,  the  Marquis  of  Dipford,  to 
Katherine  Bullet,  only  daughter  of  Mrs.  Suydam,  and 
heiress  in  her  own  right  to  twenty  millions  of  dollars. 

This  event  was  creating  the  wildest  excitement  in 
the  city.  Not  only  were  social  circles  stirred  to  their 
depths,  but  the  commonality  were  agog  to  all  that  was 
going  on.  Penny  papers  carried  the  news  to  Mulberry 
Street,  and  the  faces  of  the  Duke  of  Senlac,  the  Marquis 
of  Dipford,  of  Katherine,  and  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Suydam  were 
made  familiar  to  the  newsboy  and  the  boot-black.  It  was 
stated  that  immediately  after  the  great  dinner  the  Mar- 

261 


The  Greater  Love 

quis  of  Dipford  and  Robert  Bullet  would  sail  for  Europe 
on  the  new  steam  yacht,  which  young  Bullet  had  just 
built  at  the  cost  of  half  a  million  of  dollars. 

Keturah  Bain  read  of  these  doing  in  which  Dr.  Suy- 
dam  was  engaged  with  a  sinking  heart.  He  seemed  far 
removed  from  her  dark  and  dismal  life.  She  could  not 
think  of  him  as  one  to  whom  she  could  go  with  the  great 
and  new  trouble  that  had  come  upon  her. 

But  Mrs.  Suydam,  as  she  stood  in  the  midst  of  her 
dining  room  lined  with  smilax  and  blooming  with  Ameri- 
can beauties,  had  no  suspicion  that  all  this  grandeur  was 
making  a  sad  heart  sadder,  down  in  the  purlieus  of  Mul- 
berry Street. 

Mrs.  Suydam  was  at  the  height  of  her  social  success. 
She  was  to  entertain  nobility,  and  those  who  were  in- 
vited to  meet  his  Grace  would  be  the  envy  of  all  New 
York  in  the  morning.  The  satisfaction  of  Mrs.  Suydam 
was  marred  by  the  thought  that  she  owed  this  crowning 
success  of  her  life  to  her  daughter  rather  than  to  herself. 
She  thought,  with  some  bitterness,  that  if  she  were  as  free 
as  the  Duke  of  Senlac  she  might  that  night  have  been 
celebrating  her  own  instead  of  her  daughter's  engage- 
ment. 

Simmons,  the  butler,  was  busy  arranging  the  tables. 
Mrs.  Suydam  said,  "Simmons." 

He  stopped  with  a  start  and  said :  "Yes,  Mrs.  Suy- 
dam." 

"You  have  placed  the  Duke  of  Senlac  on  my  right  and 
Lady  Napier  on  my  left,  the  Marquis  of  Dipford  on  the 
right  of  Dr.  Suydam,  and  Miss  Katherine  on  his  left." 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Suydam,"  said  Simmons,  "and  I've  put 
Mayor  Beekman  next  the  Duke  'cause  he  is  a  good  talker, 
and  I've  put  Mr.  Du  Pre  next  Miss  Katherine." 

262 


Yes,  Your  Grace 

"Pray,  who  is  Mr.  Du  Pre  ?" 

"He  is  the  lawyer  of  the  Marquis  of  Dipford." 

"Who  told  you  to  invite  him  to  this  dinner,  and  give 
him  a  place  next  my  daughter?"  said  Mrs.  Suydam, 
haughtily. 

"If  you  please,  madam"  (when  Mrs.  Suydam  was 
angry  Simmons  always  called  her  madam),  "if  you 
please,  Miss  Katherine  told  me  I  was  to  be  sure  and  send 
Mr.  Du  Pre  a  card.  She  directed  it  herself  and  she  told 
me  I  was  to  put  him  next  to  her  at  table." 

"That  will  do,  Simmons.  You  may  leave  Mr.  Du  Pre 
where  he  is,  as  my  daughter  wishes  it  to  be  so.  You 
have  placed  Mr.  Robert  next  to  Miss  Beekman?" 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Suydam." 

"Very  well.  I  wish  you  would  see  Signer  Morrelo 
when  he  comes,  and  ask  him  to  have  his  orchestra  play 
very  softly  during  dinner.  Sometimes  Morrelo  forgets 
that  a  dinner  is  not  a  concert." 

Two  hours  later  Mrs.  Suydam  was  receiving  her 
guests  in  the  drawing  room.  The  Duke  of  Senlac  was  at 
her  side,  and  he  was  all  that  a  duke  should  be.  He  was 
in  court  dress  for  the  occasion  with  star  and  garter.  He 
was  the  most  brilliant  among  a  group  of  brilliant  figures. 
The  English  ambassador  was  there,  two  generals  and  an 
admiral  with  their  showy  uniforms,  and  merchant  princes 
with  their  wives  and  their  daughters :  these  latter  sur- 
passing the  assemblage  of  any  court  in  Europe  in  the 
richness  of  their  gowns  and  the  splendor  of  their  jewels. 

The  Duke  of  Selnac  was  very  attentive  to  Katherine 
Bullet,  who  stood  on  his  left.  These  attentions  were 
interrupted  by  greetings  which  he  gave  to  and  received 
from  the  various  guests  as  they  were  presented  by  Mrs. 
Suydam ;  but  in  spite  of  these  interruptions  he  kept  up  a 

263 


The  Greater  Love 

running  talk  with  his  prospective  daughter  for  whom 
he  evidently  had  the  greatest  admiration. 

"It  is  lucky  for  Dipford,"  said  the  Duke,  "that  he  had 
the  first  chance  with  you,  my  dear." 

"Why  so,  your  Grace?"  said  Katherine. 

"Because  if  he  hadn't  you  wouldn't  have  had  to  wait 
for  me  to  die  to  become  Duchess  of  Senlac." 

"Why  not,  sir?"  said  Katherine. 

"Because,  my  dear,  I  should  have  married  you  my- 
self," said  the  Duke,  slyly  pressing  Katherine's  hand. 

"You,"  said  Katherine,  "and  the  Duchess  not  a  year 
dead.  Oh,  fie,  fie,  on  you !  For  shame !" 

"I  honor  the  late  Duchess,"  said  the  Duke,  "and  I 
mourn  her  as  dead;  but,  my  dear,  one  living  woman  is 
worth  a  hundred  dead  ones,  especially  when  so  young 
and  so  fair  as  my  daughter  that  is  to  be.  Worse  luck  to 
me  that  she  should  be  a  daughter  and  not  nearer  and 
dearer." 

"Your  Grace  shows  your  court  training,  but  perhaps 
I  might  have  something  else  to  say.  Pardon  me,  I  feel 
too  young  for  one  of  your  age  and  rank." 

"Too  young  for  me,  you  mischief,"  said  the  Duke. 
"You  mean  I  am  too  old  for  you,  but  look  at  me  now. 
Am  not  I  as  good  a  man  as  Dipford?" 

"Better,  my  lord,"  said  Katherine. 

"Better,"  cried  the  Duke,  gaily,  "better.  Now  I  am 
more  sorry  for  myself  than  ever.  Dipford  isn't  much  of 
a  man,  is  he?" 

"Not  much,  your  Grace,"  said  Katherine. 

"Why  then,  do  you  marry  him?" 

"To  become  Duchess  of  Senlac  and  to  make  the  Mar- 
quis of  Dipford,  in  due  time,  prime  minister  of  Eng- 
land." 

264 


Yes,  Your  Grace 

"Oh,  that  is  your  game,  is  it?"  said  the  Duke. 

"Yes,  your  Grace,"  said  Katherine. 

"And  you'll  win  it,  too,  you'll  win,  I  will  bet  on  you 
against  the  field.  A  clever  woman  such  as  you  are  can 
make  a  bigger  fool  than  Dipford,  prime  minister." 

"Yes,  your  Grace,"  said  Katherine. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

AN    UNBIDDEN   GUEST 

ALL  the  guests  invited  to  meet  the  Duke  of  Senlac  had 
arrived  except  the  Mayor  of  the  City  of  New  York.  His 
coming  was  awaited  with  some  impatience  by  the  hostess, 
and  with  considerable  curiosity  by  the  rest  of  the  com- 
pany. Every  one  was  anxious  to  see  how  Tony  Beekman 
would  carry  himself  in  the  face  of  the  terrible  charges 
which  had  been  brought  against  him. 

That  very  morning  the  city  had  been  startled  by  the 
publication  of  documents  which  proved  beyond  a  doubt, 
that  the  city  officials  had  been  guilty  not  simply  of  fraud 
but  of  downright  robbery  on  the  most  gigantic  scale. 
Such  splendid  stealing  had  never  before  been  known  in 
the  history  of  the  world. 

The  city  officials,  at  the  time,  were,  as  a  class,  men 
of  a  very  low  order — Irish  saloon  keepers  and  members 
of  the  volunteer  fire  department,  men  without  educa- 
tion or  refinement.  Their  actions  were  in  keeping  with 
their  birth  and  character.  But  Anthony  Beekman  was 
of  an  entirely  different  order.  He  was  the  friend  and 
peer  of  Jacob  Suydam,  and  belonged  to  the  most  exclu- 
sive set  in  the  city  of  New  York.  He  was  a  gentleman 
and  a  scholar  whom  political  aspirations  had  associated 
with  men  that  had  been  his  ruin.  The  story  of  the  down- 

267 


The  Greater  Love 

fall  of  Anthony  Beekman,  one  of  the  unwritten  tragedies 
of  the  world,  cannot  be  told  in  this  place.  It  is  mentioned 
here  because  Anthony  Beekman  was  intimate  in  the 
household  of  Dr.  Suydam,  and  his  daughter  the  dearest 
friend  of  Katherine  Bullet.  When  Katherine  read  the 
account  in  the  morning  paper  she  did  not  believe  a  word 
of  it.  She  said  it  was  a  campaign  lie,  but  at  the  same 
time  she  was  very  sorry  for  poor  Florence. 

When  the  Mayor  entered  the  room  there  was  not  a 
sign  to  show  that  he  was  disturbed  by  what  was  going 
on  in  the  city.  His  face  was  as  calm  as  the  face  of  a 
saint,  his  manner  as  gracious  as  that  of  a  prince.  He 
was  a  man  to  win  his  way  by  the  openness  of  his  counte- 
nance and  the  blandness  of  his  speech. 

When  she  saw  him  enter  the  room,  Mrs.  Suydam  took 
the  arm  of  the  Duke  of  Senlac  and  led  the  way  to  dinner. 
The  Marquis  and  Katherine  followed,  then  the  company 
in  due  order. 

The  dinner  was  after  its  kind,  a  long  and  somewhat 
dreary  affair.  Conversation  was  low  and  intermittent. 
The  Duke  of  Senlac  finding  himself  next  the  Mayor,  was 
ungallant  enough  to  turn  away  from  his  fair  hostess  and 
seek  information  and  entertainment  from  the  man  on  his 
left. 

He  said :  "You  are  the  Mayor  of  the  city,  I  am  told." 

"Yes,  your  Grace,  I  have  that  honor,  or  perhaps  I 
should  say,  in  view  of  the  charges  made  against  me,  I 
have  that  dishonor." 

"Now,  don't  you  know,"  said  the  Duke,  "I  can't 
understand  your  politics  as  you  call  it,  at  all.  I  see  you 
want  to  take  this  and  that  department  of  your  city  govern- 
ment out  of  politics.  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?" 

"It  means  that  the  city  government  is  to  have  nothing 
to  do  with  these  various  departments." 

268 


An  Unbidden  Guest 

"But  I  should  think  it  would  be  the  first  duty  of  your 
city  government  to  look  after  these  very  things.  What 
is  your  government  for,  if  not  for  that  ?" 

"I  perceive,"  said  the  Mayor,  "that  your  Grace  is  still 
unacquainted  with  the  spirit  and  working  of  our  demo- 
cratic institutions.  Government  with  us  exists  in  a  large 
measure  for  the  purpose  of  furnishing  lucrative  occupa- 
tion to  as  great  a  number  as  possible  of  free  and  worthy 
citizens." 

Here  Mrs.  Suydam  cut  in,  saying:  "I  hope  your 
Grace  will  pay  no  attention  to  Mr.  Beekman.  He  is  a 
politician  and  is  not  in  love  with  his  trade." 

"Mrs.  Suydam  has  spoken  like  the  wise  woman  she 
is,"  said  the  Mayor.  "She  has  told  the  whole  story  in  a 
sentence.  With  us  politics  is  a  trade,  and  a  very  dirty 
trade  at  that." 

"Fancy  now!"  said  the  Duke.  "With  us  politics  is 
a  game,  and  we  think  a  very  noble  game."  The  Duke, 
the  Mayor  and  Mrs.  Suydam  then  drifted  into  a  discus- 
sion of  the  relative  merits  of  the  English  and  American 
systems. 

Meanwhile  Katherine  Bullet  was  becoming  greatly 
interested  in  Mr.  Du  Pre. 

"Your  name,"  she  said,  "is  not  an  English  name." 

"No,"  he  answered,  "it  is  French.  My  grandfather 
was  a  French  emigrant,  who  escaped  from  France  in  the 
Revolutionary  period  and  settled  on  the  estate  of  Senlac. 
He  was  employed  as  a  tutor  in  the  family  of  Senlac,  and 
we  have  been  there  ever  since." 

"You  are  satisfied  with  your  position?"  said  Kath- 
erine. 

"Satisfied?  Well,  yes  and  no.  I  have  at  present 
general  oversight  of  the  affairs  of  the  estate  and  expect 


The  Greater  Love 

in  a  short  time  to  represent  the  borough  in  Parliament." 

"Oh!"  said  Katherine,  "I  thought  Dipford  was  in 
Parliament  or  is  to  be  shortly." 

"So  he  will,"  said  Mr.  Du  Pre,  "but  ha.  will  represent 
Dipford,  not  Senlac." 

"Oh,  I  see,  when  Dipford  goes  into  the  House,  you  go 
with  him  as  manager.  What  a  charming  arrangement! 
He  is  certain  to  make  his  way  under  such  wise  manage- 
ment." 

"I  fear  you  overestimate  both  my  ability  and  my  influ- 
ence. I  hardly  expect  to  carry  Dipford  a  great  way." 

"Why  not  ?"  said  Katherine,  "because  he  is  so  heavy  ?" 
looking  wickedly  at  Dipford. 

"No,  Miss  Bullet,"  said  Mr.  Du  Pre,  smiling  at  the 
Marquis,  "let  us  say  rather  because  he  is  so  light." 

"Are  you  not  ashamed  to  speak  so  of  one  who  is  to 
be  my  husband?" 

"Your  husband,  Miss  Bullet,  will  gain  intellectual  and 
moral  weight  with  his  wife.  She  will  supply  all  that  he 
lacks." 

Dr.  Suydam  in  the  midst  of  a  conversation  with  the 
Marquis  of  Dipford  on  his  right,  was  interrupted  by 
Simmons,  the  butler,  who  said :  "I  beg  your  pardon,  sir, 
but  there  is  a  young  woman  in  the  'all  who  says  as  'ow 
she  must  see  you." 

"But,  Simmons,  you  must  tell  her  I'm  engaged." 

"I  did,  sir,  but  she  says  she  'ull  wait,  and  she  must  see 
you  to-night." 

"How  did  she  get  in?"  said  the  Doctor,  impatiently. 

"That  stupid  'Arry  let  her  in,  sir.  I'll  go  and  tell  her 
to  get  out,  and  if  she  don't  I'll  call  a  policeman,"  and  the 
butler  turned  to  go  and  dismiss  the  waiting  woman.  The 
Doctor  hastily  rose  and  followed  him  in  order  to  prevent 

270 


An  Unbidden  Guest 

a  scene.  When  he  reached  the  reception  room  on  the  left 
of  the  hall  he  found  Keturah  Bain  waiting  for  him.  He 
started  in  surprise,  saying:  "Keturah!  What  is  it  that 
brings  you  here  to-night?" 

"It  is  trouble  that  brings  me,  Dr.  Suydam,  great 
trouble.  I  had  to  come,  I  could  not  help  myself.  I  had 
to  come  or  die." 

"But  Keturah,  my  child,  I  cannot  see  you  to-night. 
We  are  entertaining  friends  at  dinner." 

"At  dinner,  Dr.  Suydam  ?  Why,  it  is  long  after  sup- 
per time." 

"Yes,  I  know,  Keturah,  but  we,  you  know,  have 
dinner  at  night,  and  we  have  the  Duke  of  Senlac  and  the 
Marquis  of  Dipford  dining  with  us,  so  I  cannot  see  you 
to-night." 

"Of  course  you  can't,"  said  Keturah,  "I  was  foolish 
to  come ;  I  will  go."  As  she  rose  her  face  took  on  a  look 
of  misery  so  abject  that  it  startled  Dr.  Suydam.  He  took 
the  girl  by  the  hand  and  said  to  her:  "What  is  it, 
Keturah,  what  is  it?  Tell  me  at  once." 

"Abigail  is  lost,"  said  Keturah. 

"What— dead?"  said  Dr.  Suydam. 

"Worse  than  that,"  said  Keturah. 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean,  my  child?  Speak  out," 
said  the  Doctor. 

"I  mean  that  our  Abigail  has  gone  away-.  Some  bad 
man  has  made  a  fool  of  her."  And  Keturah  leaned  her 
hand  upon  a  table  in  front  of  her  and  her  whole  frame 
was  shaken  with  noiseless,  tearless  sobs. 

Dr.  Suydam  went  out  of  the  room,  closing  the  door 
behind  him  and  told  the  serving  man  in  the  hall  to  go  to 
the  kitchen  and  fetch  a  cup  of  coffee  to  the  woman,  and 
to  have  her  wait  until  he  came  back. 

271 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A  FACE  IN  A  GLASS 

WHEN  Dr.  Suydam  returned  to  the  table  he  found  that 
his  absence  had  been  remarked.  As  he  re-entered  the 
dining  room  Mrs.  Suydam  looked  up  and  said  with  a 
tinge  of  impatience  in  her  voice :  "What  is  the  matter, 
Dr.  Suydam?  Where  have  you  been?" 

"I  was  called  out,"  said  the  Doctor,  "to  see  a  young 
woman  who  is  in  trouble." 

"A  young  woman?"  said  Mrs.  Suydam. 

"Yes,  a  young  woman." 

"Ah,  Dr.  Suydam,"  said  the  Duke  of  Senlac,  "you 
did  well  to  go  and  see  her.  A  young  woman  in  trouble 
is  always  an  interesting  creature." 

"I  do  not  find  them  interesting,"  said  the  Doctor,  "ex- 
cept as  sorrow  and  grief  are  interesting." 

"Exactly,"  said  the  Duke,  "exactly.  A  woman  can 
hardly  be  called  a  woman  until  she  has  gotten  herself 
into  all  sorts  of  trouble.  She  is  very  flat  until  she  has 
made  herself  a  history.  I  am  sure,  madam,"  he  said, 
turning  to  Mrs.  Suydam,  "that  you  have  a  history  well 
worth  the  reading.  A  history,  however,  not  of  defeats 
but  of  victories.  You  have  troubled  many  hearts,  though 
your  own  be  undisturbed."  The  Duke  made  this  gallant 
remark  with  high-bred  insolence,  and  Mrs.  Suydam 
blushed  with  pleasure. 

273 


The  Greater  Love 

"Gad!"  said  the  Duke  to  himself,  looking  at  her,  "a 
fine  woman  and  worth  millions  of  pounds.  If  the  parson 
were  not  in  the  way  I  would  marry  her."  Mrs.  Suydam 
felt  the  eyes  of  the  Duke  burn  into  her  soul  and  she 
blushed  again. 

Dr.  Suydam  took  his  place  and  remained  there  until 
Mrs.  Suydam  and  the  ladies  left  the  room.  Then  the 
Mayor  rose  up,  and  filling  his  glass  said :  "Gentlemen,  I 
trust  I  am  not  speaking  unadvisedly,  when  I  ask  you 
to  drink  to  the  fairest  and  best  of  women ;  the  Lady  of 
Dipford  that  is  to  be !" 

"Your  honor  expresses  my  sentiments  exactly.  Dip- 
ford  is  a  damned  lucky  dog,  who  is  getting  a  great  deal 
more  than  he  deserves,"  said  the  Duke. 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Dr.  Suydam, 
"Katherine  is  a  very  fine  girl,  but  Dipford,  you  know,  is 
a  noble  fellow." 

"Good!  Good!"  came  from  all  round  the  table. 

"Come,  Dipford,"  said  Robert  Bullet,  "you  know  our 
steamer  is  to  sail  at  daylight.  We  must  be  moving  if  we 
expect  to  go  aboard  to-night." 

"All  right,"  said  Dipford,  "I  will  be  with  you." 

The  party  rose  and  the  two  men  passed  into  the  draw- 
ing room.  Dr.  Suydam  slipped  quietly  along  the  hall  to 
the  waiting  room  and  found  Keturah  there,  with  her  un- 
tasted  coffee  before  her.  Leaving  the  door  open,  Dr. 
Suydam  sat  down  and  took  Keturah 's  hand  in  his  and 
said :  "Now,  Keturah,  tell  me  all  about  it." 

After  a  moment's  silence,  Keturah  said  in  a  low,  heart- 
broken voice:  "I've  known  for  a  long  time  that  some- 
thing was  wrong.  Abigail  has  been  behaving  strangely. 
She  has  been  away  from  home  a  great  deal.  I  thought 
she  was  with  her  friends  up-town,  girl  friends  I  mean. 

274 


A  Face  in  a  Glass 

But  I  know  now  that  she  has  been  going  with  some  young 
man,  who  has  been  driving  her  in  the  Park  and  sailing 
with  her  down  the  Bay." 

"Do  you  know  who  this  young  man  is?"  said  Dr. 
Suydam. 

"I  do  not  know  his  name,  but  I  think  it  is  a  young  man 
that  she  met  in  Saint  Nicholas  Church.  I  saw  him 
talking  to  her  one  Sunday  early  in  the  summer,  as  soon 
as  I  saw  him  I  was  afraid  of  him.  I  knew  he  meant  her 
harm." 

"Can  you  describe  him,  Keturah?"  said  the  Doctor. 
"Perhaps  I  know  him." 

Instead  of  answering,  Keturah  rose  suddenly  to  her 
feet,  her  eyes  dilating  with  horror,  her  form  rigid  as  a 
rod  of  iron.  With  one  hand  she  clutched  the  Doctor,  and 
with  the  other  she  pointed  to  a  mirror  at  the  end  of  the 
room  and  said  :  "See,  see,  there — there  he  is !" 

The  Doctor  looked  up  in  amazement  thinking  the  girl 
had  gone  mad ;  glancing  into  the  mirror  he  saw  the  reflec- 
tion of  Robert  Bullet,  who  was  standing  in  the  hallway 
drawing  on  his  gloves. 

"Who  is  that?"  whispered  Keturah. 

"That  is  my  son,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"Your  son !" 

"Perhaps  I  should  say  my  step-son,  Robert  Bullet." 

"That  is  the  man,"  said  Keturah. 

"What  man?"  said  the  Doctor. 

"The  man  who  has  been  with  my  sister !" 

"Impossible,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"No,  not  impossible ;  that  is  the  man,  I  tell  you." 

In  a  moment  another  joined  the  one  in  the  mirror. 
Then  both  of  them  passed  out  of  the  glass  and  the  street 
door  was  heard  to  open  and  shut,  the  Marquis  of  Dipford 
and  Robert  Bullet  were  off  for  England. 

275 


The  Greater  Love 

Dr.  Suydam  and  Keturah  remained  silent  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  he  whispered,  saying,  "You  are  sure?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "I  am  sure." 

"My  son  sails  for  England  at  daylight,  and  I  can  do 
nothing  now.  I  will,  however,  look  into  the  matter  at 
once,  and  if  what  you  suspect  is  true  I  will  find  your  sister 
and  see  that  justice  is  done  in  her  case." 

With  this  assurance  Keturah  returned  to  her  home  to 
wait  and  watch  for  the  one  who  had  gone  astray. 

It  did  not  take  Dr.  Suydam  very  long  to  discover  that 
the  suspicions  of  Keturah  were  not  without  foundation. 
If  Robert  Bullet  were  not  the  guilty  man,  he  was  greatly 
wronged  by  appearances.  From  Philip  Schuyler,  Dr. 
Suydam  learned  that  Robert  Bullet  had  been  constantly 
with  Abigail  Bain  since  the  early  summer.  Schuyler  did 
not  hesitate  to  speak  his  mind,  and  to  speak  it  very  freely. 
He  told  Dr.  Suydam  that  in  his  opinion  Bullet  was  a  cad 
of  the  lowest  order,  unfit  to  associate  with  gentlemen. 
"I  would  have  him  expelled  from  the  Knickerbocker  if 
I  could,  but  that  kind  of  thing  doesn't  hurt  a  man  in  the 
club.  If  a  man  cheats  at  cards  or  does  not  pay  his  club 
debts  he  is  thrown  out  in  short  order ;  but  the  more  girls 
he  ruins  the  higher  he  stands  in  the  estimation  of  the 
fools  and  rakes  who  form  the  majority  in  our  fashionable 
clubs."  Philip  Schuyler  went  on  to  speak  about  Abigail 
Bain.  He  told  Dr.  Suydam  that  she  was  an  unusually 
beautiful  girl,  with  a  bright  active  mind,  but  very  vain 
and  foolish.  "It  is  a  shame,"  said  Schuyler,  "that  Bullet 
had  to  make  her  his  game.  There  are  plenty  of  loose 
women  about  town,  married  and  unmarried,  to  serve  a 
man's  purpose  without  having  to  spoil  a  fine  girl  like 
that." 

"Has  Robert  been  guilty  of  this  kind  of  thing  before  ?" 
said  Dr.  Suydam. 

276 


A  Face  in  a  Glass 

"Guilty,"  cried  Schuyler,  laughing,  "you  don't  sup- 
pose for  a  moment  that  we  fellows  count  that  sort  of 
thing  guilt.  We  call  it  glory.  We  reckon  our  conquests 
as  the  Indian  his  scalps.  I  don't  claim  to  be  a  saint  my- 
self, but  I  do  say  there  is  a  limit.  Society  women  are  fair 
game ;  but  it  is  a  shame  to  deceive  and  ruin  a  girl  who  has 
nothing  in  the  world  but  her  respectability." 

Dr.  Suydam  was  greatly  shocked  by  what  he  heard 
from  Philip  Schuyler.  He  was  one  of  those  virgin 
souls  that  think  no  evil.  A  momentary  weakness,  which 
he  never  thought  of  without  shame,  had  betrayed  him 
into  a  loveless  marriage.  His  spiritual  ministration  had 
revealed  to  him  the  weakness  of  women,  but  not  their 
wickedness :  he  was  haunted  by  fair  saints,  but  was 
shunned  by  fair  sinners.  His  purity  was  the  purity  of 
coldness  which  repels,  not  the  purity  of  burning  love, 
which  attracts  and  cleanses. 

Dr.  Suydam  had  for  sins  of  the  flesh  a  horror  which 
made  him  turn  away  from  all  consideration  of  the  subject. 
He  did  not  believe  that  such  sins  were  possible  among 
respectable  people;  they  were  committed,  he  thought,  by 
those  who  lived  in  that  outer  world  of  darkness  and 
degradation,  into  which  he  nor  his  could  never  enter. 

It  is  not  strange  that  an  ordinary  Protestant  minister 
should  be  ignorant  of  the  spiritual  condition  of  the  people 
under  his  charge.  His  ministrations  are  confined  to  the 
pulpit,  the  parlor,  and  the  bedside.  He  takes  no  part  in 
the  active,  every-day  life  of  the  world.  Men  do  not  make 
him  a  companion.  He  is  treated  by  men  in  general  with 
reserve ;  they  respect  his  innocence.  So  he  goes  through 
life  looking  down  with  complacency  on  a  flock  that  he 
supposes  he  is  guarding  from  the  danger  of  the  wolf. 
The  poor  man,  never  having  been  in  the  wilderness,  does 

277 


The  Greater  Love 

aiot  know  a  wolf  when  he  sees  one.  He  is  deceived  by  the 
clothing.  The  sleek  wolf  of  avarice  and  the  sly  wolf  of 
sensuality  sit  in  his  foremost  pews  and  listen  devoutly  to 
all  that  he  has  to  say. 

Dr.  Suydam  was  one  of  these  innocents  and  he  was 
suffering  the  fate  of  the  innocent,  which  is  to  be  betrayed 
and  beaten  by  the  guilty. 

Dr.  Suydam  had  never  formed  a  very  high  opinion  of 
his  step-son,  but  he  had  never  supposed  that  Robert  was 
actually  bad,  and  the  discovery  of  this  fact  came  to  him  as 
a  painful  surprise. 

Further  investigation  proved  beyond  question  that 
Abigail  Bain  had  been  the  intimate  companion  of  Robert 
Bullet.  She  had  been  out  with  him  in  the  yacht  for  days, 
and  if  she  were  not  his  wife  she  ought  to  be.  The  girl 
had  disappeared  the  day  before  Robert  had  sailed  for 
England.  She  had  left  a  note  for  Keturah  saying  that 
she  was  going  away  to  be  married  and  would  not  be  back 
for  a  long  time,  probably  never.  She  asked  Keturah  to 
forgive  her  for  leaving  home.  She  could  not  help  it,  she 
had  to  go. 

Dr.  Suydam  had  the  city  searched  for  the  girl  without 
avail,  and  he  and  those  whom  he  consulted  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  she  had  left  the  country,  and  was  gone 
to  meet  Robert  in  London. 

Dr.  Suydam  carried  what  comfort  he  could  to  poor 
Keturah,  who  was  heartbroken  with  grief  and  shame. 
Her  eyes  were  weak  through  weeping,  and  her  hair  was 
losing  all  its  lustre. 

Poor  John  Sherwood,  who  came  and  sat  with  her 
every  night,  saw  to  his  dismay,  the  girl  whom  he  loved 
turning  into  an  old  woman  before  his  eyes. 

"Don't,  Keturah,  don't,"  he  cried,  as  he  sat  and  held 

278 


A  Face  in  a  Glass 

her  in  his  arms,  while  she  wept  the  hopeless  tears  of  the 
utterly  miserable.  "Come,  Keturah,  come,  don't  cry  any 
more.  It  wont  do  you  any  good.  Come  now,  let  us  get 
married.  You  have  worked  for  other  people  long  enough. 
Come  now  and  rest  while  I  work  for  you." 

"Poor  John,"  said  Keturah,  lifting  up  her  lips  to  be 
kissed.  "I  believe  if  I  were  dead  in  my  coffin  you  would 
say,  'Come,  Keturah,  let  us  get  married.' " 

"Yes,"  said  John,  sadly,  "I  believe  I  would.  So  come 
now,  don't  let  us  wait  any  longer  or  we  will  both  be 
dead  and  buried." 

"Oh,  John,"  said  the  girl,  for  girl  she  was  when  his 
arms  were  around  her.  "I  cannot  marry  until  we  find 
Abigail."  And  she  started  up  and  cried  fiercely,  "How 
I  hate  him!" 

"Hate  whom?"  said  John. 

"That  wicked  man  whose  face  I  saw  in  the  glass.  A 
face  without  a  care,  without  a  wrinkle,  who  looks  as  if  he 
had  never  done  anything  in  his  life,  except  please  him- 
self. He  has  everything  and  we  have  nothing,  nothing 
but  our  good  name,  and  he  comes  and  steals  that  away 
from  us.  I  hate  him,  I  hate  him." 

"He  is  a  rascal,"  said  Sherwood. 

"Yes,  and  God  lets  him  live.  I  don't  understand  God 
at  all,"  and  Keturah  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  she 
added  in  an  undertone  only  this :  "I  know  God  is  sorry, 
He  can't  help  it.  Bad  men  are  stronger  in  the  world  than 
He  is.  They  and  the  devil  get  the  best  of  Him,  but  He 
is  sorry,  God  is  sorry  for  us." 

Dr.  Suydam  told  Keturah  that  he  would  not  give  up 
the  search  until  he  had  found  her  sister.  He  would  go  to 
London  and  see  if  he  could  find  here  there.  And  when  he 
did  find  her  Robert  should  marry  her. 

And  Keturah  had  to  comfort  herself  with  these  words. 
279 


CHAPTER  XV 

MOTHER  AND  SON 

DR.  SUYDAM  was  greatly  disturbed  in  his  mind,  and 
did  not  know  exactly  what  to  do.  He  had  promised 
Keturah  to  go  to  London  in  search  of  Abigail,  but  it  was 
not  a  promise  which  he  could  easily  perform.  He  could 
not  lay  aside  his  work  in  Saint  Nicholas  and  go  hunting 
the  world  over  for  a  girl  who  had  gone  astray.  That 
would  make  him  a  laughing  stock.  And  yet  he  could  not 
get  the  matter  out  of  his  mind.  Wherever  he  was,  by 
night  or  by  day,  he  kept  hearing  the  words,  "Doth  he  not 
leave  the  ninety  and  nine  in  the  wilderness  and  go  and 
seek  that  which  is  lost?"  "The  good  Sheperd  giveth  his 
life  for  the  sheep;"  and  when  he  could  no  longer  quiet 
his  conscience  he  determined  to  speak  to  his  wife  and 
make  his  arrangements  to  go  to  London. 

He  had  been  walking  in  the  Park  all  the  afternoon, 
trying  to  summon  courage  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Suydam 
about  Robert.  He  dreaded  the  scene  that  he  knew  would 
follow ;  but  speak  he  would  and  speak  he  must. 

He  reached  home  about  six  o'clock  and  asked  for  Mrs. 
Suydam  and  was  told  that  she  had  gone  to  her  room  and 
was  dressing  for  dinner.  He  went  immediately  to  her 
room  and  knocked. 

"Who  is  it?"  said  Mrs.  Suydam. 

281 


The  Greater  Love 

"It  is  I,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"What  is  wanted?"  said  Mrs.  Suydam. 

"I  would  like  very  much  to  speak  to  you." 

"What!  now?" 

"Yes,  now,  as  soon  as  possible." 

"Can't  you  wait  until  after  dinner?" 

"I  would  rather  not." 

Mrs.  Suydam  was  surprised  at  the  tone  of  the 
Doctor's  voice.  It  was  insistent,  as  if  he  meant  to  be 
obeyed.  This,  as  well  as  his  visit  at  that  hour,  was  so 
unusual  that  Mrs.  Suydam  was  lost  in  astonishment. 
She  dismissed  her  maid  and  throwing  a  dressing  sack 
round  her  shoulders  opened  the  door. 

"I  have  come  to  speak  to  you,  Mrs.  Suydam,  about 
Robert,"  said  the  Doctor  slowly. 

"Robert,"  she  cried,  "Robert,  what  has  happened  to 
Robert?  Has  the  ship  gone  down?" 

"No,  Mrs.  Suydam,"  said  the  Doctor,  "so  far  as  I 
know  the  ship  is  safe  and  Robert  is  safe  also.  I  have, 
however,  been  hearing  things  about  Robert  that  disturb 
me  greatly." 

"Indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Suydam,  "what  things?" 

"I  hear,  and  I  am  afraid  that  it  is  true.  I  hear,  that 
Robert  has  been  behaving  badly  with  a  young  woman." 

"And  you,  Dr.  Suydam,"  said  his  wife,  shaking  her 
hair  out  of  her  eyes,  "come  here  and  disturb  me  in  my 
dressing  hour  to  tell  me  solemnly  that  Robert  is  behaving 
badly  with  a  young  woman.  Who  is  the  young  woman 
and  what  has  Robert  done  ?" 

"The  young  woman  is  a  beautiful  girl,  belonging  to  a 
good  family  in  the  lower  part  of  the  city.  She  is  refined 
and  well  educated." 

"A  paragon,^'  said  Mrs.  Suydam,  "and  what  has 
Robert  done  to  or  with  this  young  woman  ?" 

282 


Mother  and  Son 

"If  reports  be  true,"  said  Dr.  Suydam,  "Robert  has 
been  living  with  this  girl  as  his  wife  all  summer." 

"Has  he  married  her?"  said  Mrs.  Suydam,  anxiously. 

"No,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"Well,  then,  what  harm  has  been  done?"  said  Mrs. 
Suydam. 

"What  harm?"  exclaimed  the  Doctor  in  amazement. 
"What  harm?  Why,  unless  Robert  does  marry  her  the 
woman  is  ruined." 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Mrs.  Suydam,  "not  at  all,  her 
fortune  is  made.  Robert  has  always  behaved  very  gener- 
ously, too  generously,  in  affairs  of  this  kind." 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  Mrs.  Suydam,"  said  the 
Doctor,  "that  Robert  has  had  other  affairs  of  this  kind  ?" 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  Dr.  Suydam,  that  you  live  in 
this  world,  in  this  city  of  New  York,  and  do  not  know 
that  a  young  man  in  Robert's  position  must  necessarily 
have  affairs  of  this  kind?" 

"Why  necessarily?" 

"Because  he  is  a  young  man  with  an  immense  income. 
Such  men  have  offers  from  women  every  day.  Women 
high  in  society  are  willing  to  give  themselves  to  such  men, 
if  they  can  in  that  way  get  hold  of  their  purse." 

"You  know  that,"  said  Dr.  Suydam. 

"Yes,  I  know  it,  and  because  I  know  it  I  know  that 
Robert  Bullet  cannot  live  in  the  city  of  New  York  as  if 
he  were  your  St.  Anthony  in  a  desert.  I  know  that  he 
must  do  as  other  young  men  have  done  and  are  doing. 
My  only  care  has  been  to  keep  him  out  of  the  hands  of 
women  who  would  ruin  him." 

"And  yet,"  said  the  Doctor,  "you  are  a  Christian 
woman,  the  wife  of  a  Christian  minister,  and  receive  the 
Holy  Communion." 


The  Greater  Love 

"My  dressing  room,"  said  Mrs.  Suydam,  with  a 
shrug,  "is  hardly  the  place  for  a  sermon.  You  know,  Dr. 
Suydam,  as  well  as  I,  that  the  world  in  which  we  live  does 
not  take  its  religion  seriously." 

"I  cannot  believe  this,"  said  Dr.  Suydam.  "I  cannot 
believe  that  many  do  as  Robert  has  done,  or  think  as  you 
think." 

"I  would  not  advise  you,  Doctor,"  said  Mrs.  Suydam, 
"to  become  father  confessor  to  your  flock.  If  you  did 
you  would  not  have  that  high  opinion  of  them  which 
you  have  now.  Of  course,  you  know  all  about  Mr. 
Dulane,  your  warden." 

"I  know  nothing  about  Mr.  Dulane  that  is  not  to  his 
credit.  He  is  always  at  church  and  is  very  liberal  in  the 
support  of  all  our  works.  I  know  nothing  else  of  him," 
said  the  Doctor,  indignantly. 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Suydam,  "you  would  know,  if  you 
knew  anything  that  goes  on  outside  your  church  build- 
ing, that  Mr.  Dulane  was  living  with  another  woman  all 
the  while  his  wife  was  sick,  and  has  been  living  with  the 
same  woman  since  his  wife's  death." 

"This  is  slander,"  said  Dr.  Suydam,  "vile  slander.  I 
will  not  listen  to  it." 

"Listen  to  it  or  not  as  you  please,  it  is  true.  Mr.  Du- 
lane hardly  takes  the  trouble  to  conceal  it ;  he  goes  and 
comes  at  this  woman's  house  as  if  it  were  his  own  home, 
as  indeed  it  is.  He  is  far  more  faithful  to  it  than  most 
men  are  to  their  own  homes." 

"Why,"  said  Dr.  Suydam,  with  anger,  "have  I  not 
known  this  before?" 

"You  have  not  known  it,"  answered  Mrs.  Suydam, 
"because  like  most  clergymen,  you  live  in  a  fool's  para- 
dise and  think,  because  you  talk  so  much  of  heaven, 
everything  is  heavenly." 

284 


Motherland  Son 

"I  do  not  think  it  worth  while  to  continue  this  conver- 
sation," said  the  Doctor.  "I  simply  came  to  tell  you  that 
I  am  going  to  London  to  look  for  this  woman,  and  when 
I  find  her  I  shall  see  that  Robert  marries  her." 

"Marries  her!"  said  Mrs.  Suydam,  laughing:  "If 
Robert  had  to  marry  all  the  ladies  who  have  been  kind 
to  him  in  this  way  he  would  have  quite  a  harem.  Marry 
her  indeed,  the  hussy!  She  will  be  fortunate  if  she  is 
not  thrown  out  on  the  street." 

"That  is  what  I  am  afraid  of,"  said  Dr.  Suydam,  "and 
it  is  from  that  I  would  save  her.  I  do  not  want  the  girl 
to  lose  her  soul  if  I  can  help." 

"Oh !  if  you  talk  about  her  soul,"  said  Mrs.  Suydam, 
"I  have  nothing  to  say.  But  my  advice  is  to  let  this 
matter  alone.  It  is  no  business  of  yours  and  you  can 
do  no  good  by  meddling." 

"I  intend  to  make  it  my  business,"  said  the  Doctor, 
"and  to  meddle  until  I  make  this  wicked  young  man 
atone  as  far  as  he  can  for  the  wrong  he  has  done." 

"You  forget,  Dr.  Suydam,"  cried  the  lady  in  a  rage, 
"that  you  are  speaking  of  my  son.  I  will  not  have  you 
speak  so  of  my  son ;  I  will  not  have  it !" 

"You  forget,  Mrs.  Suydam,"  said  the  Doctor,  "that 
you  are  my  wife,  and  it  is  not  for  me  to  hear  nor  for  you 
to  speak  such  words  as  you  are  speaking." 

"I  may  be  your  wife,  Dr.  Suydam,  but  my  children 
are  not  your  children  and  I  will  not  have  you  interfering 
in  any  way  with  them  or  their  affairs.  As  for  Robert 
marrying  that  woman  from  the  street,  you  know  as  well 
as  I  that  it  is  absurd,  impossible.  If  you  go  to  London 
you  will  go  on  a  fool's  errand.  Now,  if  you  please,  I 
would  like  to  finish  dressing.  I  will  be  late  for  dinner 
as  it  is." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THUS   SAITH   THE   LORD 

THE  Sunday  following  Dr.  Suydam's  interview  witk 
his  wife  was  a  Sunday  which  the  congregation  of  Saint 
Nicholas  church  never  forgot.  On  that  day  it  was 
treated  to  a  surprise  and  a  sensation.  The  elegant,  the 
accomplished  Dr.  Suydam,  whose  sermons  were  admired 
as  being  so  scholarly  and  so  spiritual,  was  suddenly 
changed  into  a  fierce,  wild  prophet  of  the  Lord.  His 
usually  well-modulated  voice  was  harsh  and  angry  in 
tone ;  his  sentences  were  abrupt  and  broken ;  his  manner 
was  restless  and  nervous. 

He  went  into  the  pulpit  and  gave  out  his  text  from 
the  first  chapter  of  Isaiah,  part  of  the  fifth  and  sixth 
verses.  "The  whole  head  is  sick  and  the  whole  heart 
faint ;  from  the  sole  of  the  foot  even  unto  the  head  there 
is  no  soundness  in  it,  but  wounds  and  bruises  and  putre- 
fying sores." 

Pausing  an  instant  after  giving  out  his  text,  the 
preacher  said  slowly  and  bitterly:  "These  words  de- 
scribe exactly  the  social  and  political  condition  of  our 
city  to-day.  Jerusalem,  in  the  time  of  Isaiah  the  prophet, 
was  far  from  being  so  corrupt  as  is  the  city  of  New  York 
at  this  instant.  Our  political  corruption  has  made  us  a 
stench  in  the  nostrils  of  the  civilized  world.  Our  rulers 

287 


The  Greater  Love 

are  worse  than  the  rulers  whom  Isaiah  rebuked.  He  said 
of  them,  'Your  princes  are  rebellious  and  companions  of 
thieves;  our  princes  are  not  the  companions  of  thieves; 
they  are  the  thieves  themselves.  Men  of  gentle  birth, 
whose  family  name  has  long  been  honored  in  this  com- 
munity, have  descended  to  the  lowest  depths  of  political 
degradation ;  they  have  become  the  dupes  and  the  tools 
of  men  with  whom  their  fathers  would  not  have  spoken ; 
they  have  assisted  these  vile  characters  in  the  meanest 
dishonesty  of  which  a  man  can  be  capable.  Beside  this 
crime,  the  crime  of  the  burglar  is  virtue  itself.  The 
burglar  takes  his  risk  and  robs  at  his  peril,  but  these  men 
steal  the  funds  which  they  were  appointed  to  guard.  To 
the  crime  of  theft  they  add  the  meanness  of  treachery. 
And  so  callous  is  their  conscience  that  they  do  their  evil 
without  compunction.  Their  face  is  as  open  as  the  face 
of  a  child  and  their  smile  as  bland  as  summer." 

Dr.  Suydam  paused  and  looking  down,  saw  Anthony 
Beekman  in  his  seat  gazing  at  him  with  that  perfect  in- 
difference with  which  the  Mayor  was  in  the  habit  of  re- 
garding all  abuse.  He  doubtless  thought  that  Suydam 
was  taking  a  mean  advantage  of  him ;  but  what  of  that  ? 
He  was  a  politician  and  had  been  vilified  until  he  was  as 
used  to  it  as  an  eel  is  to  skinning. 

Dr.  Suydam  also  saw  Florence  sitting  beside  her  father, 
her  face  pale  as  ashes,  her  eyes  aflame  with  indignation. 
For  a  moment  the  preacher  hesitated  before  those  eyes, 
but  only  for  a  moment  The  indignation  in  the  eyes  of 
Florence  Beekman  was  but  a  spark  in  comparison  with 
the  indignation  that  was  burning  his  heart  and  crying 
for  utterance  from  his  lips. 

"But,"  he  cried  in  a  voice  that  rang  through  the 
church  like  a  trumpet,  "but  our  political  corruption  is 

288 


Thus  Saith  the  Lord 

the  natural  outcome  of  our  social  rottenness.  The  seat 
of  the  evil  is  not  as  some  would  have  us  think,  in  the 
slums  among  the  poor  and  the  ignorant ;  it  is  in  what  we 
call  our  high  places.  Our  young  men  are  not  simply 
permitted,  they  are  encouraged,  to  make  victims  of  inno- 
cent women,  and  when  done  with  them,  to  whistle  them 
down  the  wind  a  prey  to  fortune.  Our  maidens  are  not 
ashamed  to  sell  themselves  for  a  title,  and  men  of  high 
station  in  church  and  state  forsake  their  own  wives  to 
seek  pleasure  in  the  arms  of  a  stranger,  and  while  doing 
all  these  things  they  profess  the  religion  of  Jesus  Christ. 

"Nothing  so  horrible  as  this  has  ever  been  seen  in  the 
world;  of  old,  when  men  were  licentious,  they  were  the 
worshippers  of  licentious  gods,  but  now  we  worship  the 
pure,  the  holy,  the  clean,  while  we  riot  in  the  impure,  the 
unholy,  and  the  unclean. 

"Some  terrible  punishment  must  follow  this  terrible 
apostasy.  If  we  will  not  make  ourselves  like  our  God, 
sooner  or  later  we  must  make  our  Gods  like  ourselves 
and  adore  the  impure,  the  unholy,  the  unclean,  the  cruel, 
and  the  dishonest.  When  that  hour  comes,  we  will  be 
like  unto  Sodom  and  like  unto  Gomorrah,  fit  only  for 
the  everlasting  burning." 

When  Dr.  Suydam  ceased  preaching  the  church  was 
as  still  as  a  stone.  Not  a  sound  was  heard,  not  a  move- 
ment was  seen ;  the  whole  congregation  was  petrified  into 
silence. 

Then,  as  all  were  watching,  the  preacher  came  down 
from  the  pulpit, — there  was  a  cry  heard,  "Look  to  Mr. 
Dulane,  look  to  Mr.  Dulane!"  There  was  a  rush  to  the 
place  of  the  warden  who  had  risen  from  his  seat,  wavered 
and  staggered,  and  then  fallen  to  the  floor.  Dr.  Dane, 
who  was  in  the  congregation,  came  hastily  forward  and 

289 


The  Greater  Love 

kneeling  down,  felt  of  the  fallen  man's  heart,  and  said  to 
the  people,  "Go  away,  go  away.  Mr.  Dulane  is  dead." 

The  crowd  dispersed  at  once.  Officers  came  in  from 
the  street  and  the  dead  man  was  carried  out  and  taken 
to  his  home.  As  the  people  went  out  there  were  mur- 
murs of  indignation  heard  on  every  side  against  Dr. 
Suydam.  What  did  he  mean  by  his  senseless  ranting? 
It  was  worse  than  a  Methodist  camp  meeting.  The  ex- 
citement had  killed  Mr.  Dulane.  Why  couldn't  he  preach 
the  Gospel  and  let  social  life  and  politics  alone?  One 
thing  was  certain  after  that  morning,  which  was  that 
Dr.  Suydam  would  never  be  rector  of  Saint  Nicholas' 
church.  His  chance  for  that  was  gone  forever.  So 
everyone  was  saying. 

Dr.  Van  Antwerp,  the  rector,  who  was  in  the  church 
that  morning,  was  greatly  shocked  and  grieved. 

"What  on  earth  was  the  matter  with  you  this  morn- 
ing, Suydam  ?"  said  the  rector ;  "You  ranted  in  the  pulpit 
like  a  madman.  You  have  killed  Dulane." 

"I  have  not  killed  him,"  said  Dr.  Suydam ;  "the  Lord 
killed  him." 

"The  Lord !"  said  Dr.  Van  Antwerp ,  "Come  now, 
Suydam,  don't  rant  in  here;  what  in  heaven's  name  has 
come  over  you?" 

"The  power  of  God  has  come  over  me,  sending  me 
to  denounce  the  wickedness  of  the  wicked.  The  man 
who  has  just  died  has  been  going  from  the  bedside  of 
his  sick  wife  to  the  bed  of  a  harlot.  He  has  come  to  the 
holy  communion  here  in  the  morning,  and  spent  the  af- 
ternoon and  night  with  his  paramour." 

"Dr.  Suydam,"  cried  Dr.  Van  Antwerp,  "you  are 
crazy.  Who  told  you  all  this  ?" 

290 


Thus  Saith  the  Lord 

"Mrs.  Suydam  told  me,  but  I  did  not  take  her  word. 
I  found  it  out  myself.  It  is  all  true." 

Dr.  Suydam  left  the  church  by  the  back  way,  as 
Broadway  was  thronged  with  people.  He  went  to  his 
home  in  the  avenue  hating  its  tawdry  magnificence 
and  despising  all  who  were  in  it,  even  himself.  He  re- 
fused to  go  down  to  luncheon  and  told  Simmons  that  he 
could  see  no  one  that  day. 

Mrs.  Suydam  sent  word  that  she  and  Katherine  were 
to  leave  that  afternoon  for  Newport,  and  Dr.  Suydam 
would  hear  from  her  lawyers. 

Dr.  Suydam  sat  in  his  room  and  heard  the  trunks 
carried  down  stairs,  heard  his  wife  and  Katherine  follow 
them,  heard  the  street  door  open  and  shut,  heard  the  car- 
riage drive  away,  and  then  heard  a  stillness  like  the  still- 
ness of  death  creep  over  the  great  house. 

He  sat  in  his  chair  without  moving  a  muscle,  think- 
ing of  the  terrible  scene  of  the  morning.  Had  he  killed 
Mr.  Dulane?  Where  was  Mr.  Dulane  now,  in  hell? 
Yes,  in  hell,  and  who  was  to  blame?  He,  Dr.  Suydam, 
had  been  the  pastor  of  the  dead  man  for  ten  years  and 
had  never  taken  the  trouble  to  find  out  how  Mr.  Dulane 
was  living,  had  never  warned  him  of  the  danger  that 
threatened  him.  He  remembered  what  the  prophet 
Ezekiel  said  of  the  watchman  who  did  not  sound  the 
trumpet.  He  was  that  watchman.  He  had  not  sounded 
the  trumpet.  Mr.  Dulane  had  died  in  his  iniquity,  but 
his  blood  would  be  required  at  the  watchman's  hand, 
and  he,  Jacob  Suydam,  was  the  watchman. 

As  he  sat  thinking  of  himself  as  in  hell  with  Mr. 
Dulane,  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door  and  the  voice  of 
Simmons  was  heard,  saying:  "If  you  please,  sir,  his 
honor,  the  Mayor,  Mr.  Beekman,  would  like  to  speak  to 
you  for  a  moment." 

291 


The  Greater  Love 

"Let  him  come  up,"  said  Dr.  Suydam. 

Mayor  Beekman  entered  the  room,  and  went  and 
stood  in  front  of  the  fire  which  was  burning  on  the 
hearth. 

"Sit  down,  Tony,  sit  down,"  said  Dr.  Suydam. 

"No,  I  will  not  sit  down,  Jacob  Suydam.  I  will  never 
sit  down  again  in  your  house.  I  suppose  you  thought 
you  did  a  brave  thing  this  morning  when  from  the  se- 
curity of  your  pulpit  you  hounded  a  man  who  was  al- 
ready hounded  to  death..  If  you  hadn't  any  pity  for  me, 
you  might  have  had  compassion  for  Florence.  She  had 
hysterics  as  soon  as  we  got  home;  we  had  to  quiet  her 
with  morphine." 

"I  am  sorry,  Tony,  I  am  sorry;  but  I  said  what  the 
Lord  told  me  to  say,"  said  Dr.  Suydam. 

"What  nonsense!"  said  Anthony  Beekman.  "Why 
hasn't  the  Lord  been  telling  you  to  say  something  for 
the  last  ten  years?  You  pulpit  fellows  are  enough  to 
make  a  man  curse  religion  and  all  that  belongs  to  it." 

"I  have  tried  to  do  my  duty,  Anthony  Beekman!" 
cried  Dr.  Suydam. 

"Tried  to  do  your  duty !  That  is  the  excuse  of  a  fool. 
You  knew,  or  ought  to  have  known,  what  Dulane  was 
about.  Did  you  ever  say  anything  to  him?" 

"No,  I  did  not,"  said  Dr.  Suydam.  "I  knew  nothing 
of  it  till  a  few  days  ago." 

"Then  you  get  up  in  the  pulpit  and  denounce  him 
before  all  the  people.  I  tell  you,  Jacob  Suydam,  that 
man's  blood  is  on  your  hands." 

"Yes,"  said  Jacob  Suydam,  "his  blood  is  on  my  hands. 
I  know  it." 

"And  you  are  hounding  me  out  of  the  country.  I 
know  I'm  ruined.  I  know  I've  got  to  go.  I  can  stand 
it  myself,  but  great  God,  man,  think  of  Florence!" 

292 


Thus  Saith  the  Lord 

"Tony !"  cried  Dr.  Suydam,  rising  and  going  forward, 
"Tony,  forgive  me!  I  am  a  greater  sinner  than  you. 
If  I  had  done  my  duty,  perhaps  you  would  have  done 
yours." 

"Forgive  you,  Jacob?  I've  nothing  to  forgive.  You 
didn't  make  me  a  rascal.  I  sold  myself  to  the  devil  and 
I  am  paying  the  debt.  You  might  have  spared  me  the 
rant  of  this  morning,  the  last  morning  I  shall  ever  see 
in  this  country.  I  am  going  to-morrow,  before  the  in- 
dictment is  found  against  me;  but  where  I  am  going, 
what  I'm  going  to  do,  or  how  we  are  going  to  live,  I 
don't  know.  I  didn't  need  your  curse  to  make  me 
wretched.  I  was  wretched  already." 

"Don't  go  with  my  curse,  Tony,  take  my  blessing," 
said  Dr.  Suydam. 

"And  much  good  would  it  do  me.  No !  No !  Let  me 
alone.  Neither  curse  me  at  all  nor  bless  me  at  all. 
Good-bye,  Jacob,  good-bye." 

Anthony  Beekman  held  the  hand  of  his  old  friend  in 
his  for  a  moment,  dropped  it  and  went  away. 


293 


CHAPTER  XVII 

SAVED  AS  BY  FIRE 

WHEN  night  came  on  Jacob  Suydam  found  the  silence 
of  the  house  intolerable.  He  rose  up  and  went  out  into 
the  street.  He  had  it  in  mind  to  go  to  Saint  Nicholas. 
Perhaps  Keturah  would  be  there  with  some  news  from 
Abigail.  It  was  Sunday  night,  a  night  when  the  news- 
boys do  not  ordinarily  run  the  streets;  but  as  Jacob 
walked  down  the  avenue  he  heard  them  crying  from  every 
direction :  "Extra !  Extra !  All  about  the  death  of  Dulane ! 
All  about  the  sermon  of  Dr.  Suydam."  Buying  a  copy 
of  the  Herald,  Dr.  Suydam  saw  the  death  of  John  Du- 
lane and  the  sensational  sermon  of  Dr.  Suydam  an- 
nounced in  great  head-lines.  He  crushed  the  paper  in 
his  hand  and  a  wave  of  bitterness  swept  over  him.  He, 
Jacob  Suydam,  had  suddenly  become  that  thing  which 
he  loathed  beyond  all  things  in  the  world,  a  sensational 
preacher. 

As  he  walked  down  Broadway  and  saw  the  great 
tower  of  Saint  Nicholas  rising  above  the  surrounding 
buildings,  tears  came  into  his  eyes.  He  remembered 
the  happy  days  of  his  early  ministry,  when  he  had  been 
so  full  of  enthusiasm.  He  remembered  his  foolish, 
shameful  scene  with  Mrs.  Bullet  and  he  remembered 
the  years  that  followed.  Years  of  high  thinking,  if  not 


295 


The  Greater  Love 

of  noble  living.  For  twenty  years  his  life  had  been 
bound  up  in  the  life  of  Saint  Nicholas,  and  now  it  was  all 
over.  He  knew  in  his  heart  that  he  would  never  preach 
in  Saint  Nicholas  again.  If  Abigail  Bain  had  not  been 
found,  he,  Dr.  Suydam,  must  go  to  London  to  search 
for  her,  and  before  going  to  London  he  must  resign  from 
Saint  Nicholas. 

When  Dr.  Suydam  reached  the  church  he  did  not  go, 
as  usual,  into  the  vestry  room  and  vest  for  service.  He 
had  no  heart  for  that.  He  went  up  the  stairway  into 
the  gallery  and  sat  in  a  corner  by  the  organ.  It  was 
dark  there  and  no  one  would  see  him. 

A  great  crowd  was  surging  into  the  church,  filling 
not  only  the  seats,  but  the  aisle  and  the  chancel.  The 
sensation  of  the  morning  had  stirred  the  city  to  its 
depths,  and  there  was  a  rush  to  the  church  from  every 
quarter.  But  if  the  crowd  came  in  the  hope  that  the 
exciting  scene  of  the  morning  would  be  repeated,  it  was 
greatly  disappointed.  Nothing  happened  out  of  the  usual. 
Evening  prayer  was  said  and  a  very  short,  common- 
place sermon  was  preached  by  one  of  the  younger  clergy. 

As  he  sat  in  his  obscure  corner,  Dr.  Suydam  saw 
Keturah  Bain  in  the  gallery  just  in  front  of  him.  When 
the  service  was  over  and  the  people  were  leaving,  he 
leaned  over  and  touched  her,  and  motioned  her  to  wait 
for  him.  As  they  walked  down  the  stairway  together 
Dr.  Suydam  said  in  an  undertone:  "Have  you  heard 
anything  ?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Keturah. 

They  walked  in  silence  down  Broadway,  no  one  rec- 
ognizing Dr.  Suydam  in  the  darkness.  As  they  went 
through  Duane  Street,  fire  engines  and  hose  carriages 
passed  them  at  a  gallop.  Reaching  Chatham  Street,  they 

296 


Saved  As  By  Fire 

saw  smoke  and  flames  rising  just  beyond  them  and  the 
people  running  in  crowds.  "Where  is  the  fire?"  cried 
Keturah  to  a  police  officer. 

"In  Mulberry  Bend,"  he  said. 

"In  Mulberry  Bend!"  exclaimed  Keturah.  "Come, 
Doctor,  come  quickly;  it  may  be  our  house!"  Keturah 
started  to  run,  and  Dr.  Suydam  ran  with  her.  They  left 
the  sidewalk,  which  was  crowded  with  people,  and  ran 
in  the  street.  They  came  breathless  to  the  Bend,  and 
there  they  saw  the  flames  shooting  out  of  the  great  tene- 
ment at  No.  53.  "My  God!"  cried  Keturah.  "Mother 
and  father  and  Benjamin  are  at  home  and  will  perish  in 
the  flames!"  Without  stopping  to  ask  permission,  Ke- 
turah rushed  through  the  passage  way  into  the  court. 
The  court  was  full  of  smoke  and  falling  bricks,  and  the 
water  was  pouring  down  in  a  deluge. 

Just  as  Dr.  Suydam  and  Keturah  entered  the  court, 
Benjamin  Bain  staggered  out  of  the  cottage,  carrying  his 
mother  in  his  arms.  He  had  gotten  only  a  little  way 
when  he  was  struck  to  the  ground  by  falling  bricks. 
Dr.  Suydam  leaped  forward  and  dragged  Mrs.  Bain  to 
the  shelter  of  the  passage  way.  He  was  returning  for 
Benjamin,  but  before  he  could  reach  him  a  portion  of 
the  wall  fell  and  buried  him  in  the  ruins. 

Keturah  ran  in  and  tried  to  uncover  the  body  of  her 
brother,  but  the  bricks  were  hot  and  the  water  was  cold, 
and  she  was  driven  back.  Suddenly,  with  a  wild  cry, 
she  rushed  over  the  bricks  and  through  the  water  to  the 
Magrath  cabin,  calling,  "Mother  Magrath!  Mother 
Magrath!"  Without  pausing,  she  burst  into  the  cabin, 
which  was  already  afire,  and  found  Mother  Magrath 
crooning  over  some  books  which  she  had  in  her  lap. 
Keturah  picked  the  woman  up  as  if  she  had  been  a 

2Q7 


The  Greater  Love 

baby  and  ran  with  her  through  the  sheet  of  flame  that 
was  now  pouring  out  the  rear  windows  of  the  tenement. 

"The  divil!  The  divil!"  cried  Mother  Magrath. 
"Where  be  ye  takin'  me,  at  all,  at  all?" 

"Come,  mother,  come,"  said  Keturah,  "or  we'll  burn 
to  death."  Reaching  the  passage  way,  Keturah  found 
Dr.  Suydam  waiting  for  her;  but  her  mother  had  been 
taken  out  into  the  street.  Dr.  Suydam  assisted  her  to 
carry  Mother  Magrath,  and  when  they  reached  the  street 
she  was  placed  in  an  ambulance  with  Mrs.  Bain  and 
taken  to  the  hospital  of  St.  Francis.  Keturah  and  Dr. 
Dr.  Suydam  went  with  them. 

As  they  went  along  Keturah  said :  "Is  Benjamin 
dead?" 

"I  am  afraid  that  he  is,"  said  Dr.  Suydam.  "No  man 
could  live  long  in  such  a  place  as  that." 

"Yes,"  said  Keturah,  "Benjamin  is  dead,  poor  boy,  it 
it  better  so.  He's  had  a  hard  life  since  he  was  hurt  in 
the  riots.  He  died  trying  to  save  his  mother." 

"Yes,"  said  Dr,  Suydam,  "he  died  a  noble  death.  He 
has  saved  himself  by  trying  to  save  another.  You  may 
be  sure  Benjamin  is  safe  to-night." 

"And  father,  I  wonder  where  father  is?  I  did  not 
see  father  anywhere,"  said  Keturah. 

"Perhaps  he  was  not  at  home,"  said  Dr.  Suydam. 

"I  am  sure  he  was  not,"  said  Keturah,  "or  we  should 
have  seen  him." 

They  reached  the  hospital,  and  the  wounded  women 
were  taken  in  and  cared  for  by  the  good  sisters. 

On  examination  Mrs.  Bain  was  found  to  have  a  com- 
pound fracture  of  the  skull.  She  lingered  out  the  hours 
of  the  night,  but  in  the  early  morning  she  died. 

Dr.  Suydam  stayed  with  Keturah  until  her  mother 
died  and  then  he  left  her. 

298 


Saved  As  By  Fire 

John  Sherwood  had  learned  where  she  was  and  had 
come  to  fetch  Keturah  home  to  his  house. 

He  said:  "You  are  mine  now,  Keturah.  You  must 
come  home  with  me." 

"Yes,  John,"  she  said,  "I  will  come.  I've  nowhere 
else  to  go."  Before  he  left  Dr.  Suydam  made  arrange- 
ment with  the  sisters  for  the  burial  of  Mrs.  Bain  in  the 
cemetery  at  Union  Hill. 


299 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE   SHADOW   OF   DEATH 

WHEN  Dr.  Suydam  reached  home  in  the  morning  he 
was  in  a  pitiable  condition.  His  hat  was  broken  in,  his 
clothing  soiled  and  torn,  and  he  was  in  the  grasp  of  a 
deadly  chill.  He  staggered  as  he  walked,  and  had  all 
the  appearance  of  a  man  in  the  last  stage  of  intoxication. 
Unable  to  open  the  door  himself,  he  rang  the  bell,  which 
was  answered  by  Harry,  the  serving  man. 

When  the  serving  man  saw  the  Doctor,  he  supposed 
he  was  a  tramp  and  shut  the  door  in  his  face.  Incensed 
at  this,  the  Doctor  rang  the  bell  more  violently.  Harry 
called  to  Simmons,  the  butler,  to  help  him  get  rid  of  the 
tramp  at  the  door. 

Simmons,  taking  a  cane  in  his  hand,  opened  the  door 
and  cried :  "Get  out  o'  here,  you  dirty  rascal,  or  I'll  break 
your  'ead  for  you." 

"Simmons,"  said  Dr.  Suydam,  "put  down  your  cane 
and  help  me  into  the  house.  I  am  very  sick." 

Hearing  the  Doctor's  voice,  Simmons  dropped  his 
cane  which  rolled  down  into  the  street,  and  stood  gazing 
open-mouthed. 

"Simmons,"  said  the  Doctor,  "let  me  in  and  help  me 
to  my  room." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Simmons,  "beg  pardon,  sir,  but  you're 

301 


The  Greater  Love 

that  rum  lookin'  as  'ow  I  didn't  know  you.  You  must 
a  been  hout  all  night,  sir,  you  must." 

"Never  mind  where  I  have  been,  Simmons.  Help  me 
to  my  room." 

Without  further  words  Simmons  assisted  Dr.  Suy- 
dam  to  his  room  and  put  him  to  bed. 

When  he  was  in  bed  Dr.  Suydam  ordered  Simmons 
to  say  nothing  about  his  condition  to  any  one  in  the  house, 
but  to  go  at  once  to  Dr.  Drane  and  ask  him  to  come  im- 
mediately. 

Simmons  left  the  room  and  going  down  the  stairs 
said  to  Harry,  the  waiting  man :  "  'Arry,  we's  to  keep  it 
dark." 

"Is  we?"  said  Harry. 

"Yes ;  Suydam  says  'e  to  me  says  'e,  'Simmons,'  says 
I.  'What,'  says  'e  'Simmons,  I  begsi  yer  pardon  for  comin' 
'ome  like  this',  says  'e,  'and  you'll  please  keep  it  dark. 
Don't  say  nothink  to  nobody,'  says  'e,  "n  go  and  call  Dr. 
Drane',  says  'e,  'and  tell  him  I'm  hawful  sick.' 

"  'Yes,  sir/  say  hi,  'and  we'll  keep  it  dark,  'Arry  and 
me  will.'  It  'ud  never  do  for  the  people  to  know  as  'ow 
Dr.  Suydam  came  home  that  drunk  as  he  couldn't  get  up 
stairs.  Hi  gives  warnin',  hi  do.  Hit's  bad  enough  to 
'ave  to  put  Mr.  Robert  to  bed,  but  when  it  comes  to  Dr. 
Suydam  and  'im  a  preacher  o'  the  Gospel,  then  hit's  time 
for  a  man  as  respects  'isself  to  give  warnin',  and  hi  gives 
warnin'  to-morrow." 

Simmons  went  at  once  for  Dr.  Drane,  whom  he  found 
in  his  office.  "Well,  Simmons,"  said  Dr.  Drane,  "what 
is  the  matter?" 

"Dr.  Suydam  is  that  bad,  sir,  you're  to  come  at  once, 
but  the  Doctor  says  as  'ow  you'll  please  keep  it  dark,"  and 
Simmons  looked  very  mysterious  and  important. 

302 


The  Shadow  of  Death 

"Keep  what  dark,  Simmons?" 

"You'll  keep  it  dark  as  'ow  Dr.  Suydam  come  'ome 
this  mornin'  havin'  been  hout  hall  night,  and  'e  couldn't 
walk  straight,  'e  couldn't.  'Arry  and  me  'ad  to  'elp  'im 
up  stairs,  we  did,  and  put  'im  to  bed,  jest  like  we  do  Mr. 
Robert,  and  says  'e  to  me,  says  'e,  'Simmons,  keep  it 
dark.' " 

"Simmons,"  said  Dr.  Drane,  "I  advise  you  to  say 
nothing  more  about  this;  it  might  get  you  into  trouble. 
I  will  come  over  at  once  and  see  Dr.  Suydam.  You  may 
be  sure  that  something  else  ails  Dr.  Suydam;  he  is  cer- 
tainly not  drunk." 

"Not  drunk?  said  Simmons.  "If  you'd  a  seed  him, 
with  'is  'at  stove  in  and  'is  clothes  all  tore  and  muddy 
and  'e  a-staggering  as  'ow  he  couldn't  walk,  you'd  say  'e 
was  drunk,  and  blind  drunk,  too." 

"Simmons,  said  Dr.  Drane,  "you  must  not  talk  in 
this  way  or  you  will  surely  get  into  trouble." 

"I  haint  lookin'  for  no  trouble.  'Arry  and  me  gives 
warnin'  to-morrow.  Gentlemen  like  us  can't  afford  to 
stay  in  a  'ouse  like  that,  puttin'  drunken  men  to  bed  that 
way." 

"Never  mind,  Simmons,  never  mind.  Go  home,  and 
I  will  follow." 

As  Dr.  Drane  walked  to  the  home  of  Dr.  Suydam, 
he  was  greatly  troubled  by  what  Simmons  had  told  him. 
He  admired  Dr.  Suydam  most  of  all  because  he  was  a 
high-toned  gentleman.  Could  it  be  possible  that  this 
man,  who  all  his  life  had  been  without  reproach  had  sud- 
denly fallen  into  the  lowest  forms  of  vice?  Was  his  sen- 
sational sermon  of  the  day  before  simply  the  outbreak 
of  drunken  hysteria? 
Dr.  Drane  was  heart-sick  when  he  reached  the  home 

303 


The  Greater  Love 

of  his  distinguished  patient.  He  was  afraid  to  enter  lest 
he  should  find  in  it  one  of  those  awful  tragedies  of  human 
sin  that  play  havoc  with  human  life. 

When  he  entered  the  room  Dr.  Drane  said,  "Good 
morning,  Doctor;  Simmons  tells  me  that  you  are  sick." 

"Yes,  Doctor  Drane,"  said  Dr.  Suydam,  "I  fear  that 
I'm  going  to  be  very  sick." 

"What  is  the  matter?"  said  Dr.  Drane. 

"I  got  very  wet,"  answered  Dr.  Suydam,  "and  was 
in  my  wet  clothing  all  night,  and  have  taken  a  severe 
cold.  I  have  severe  pains  in  my  left  side  and  can  hardly 
breathe." 

"How  did  you  come  to  get  so  wet  ?"  asked  Dr.  Drane. 
"It  did  not  rain  last  night." 

"No,"  said  Dr.  Suydam,  "I  got  wet  at  the  fire." 

"What  fire?" 

"The  fire  in  Mulberry  Street.  It  was  a  dreadful  fire. 
Many  lives  were  lost." 

"Yes,"  said  Dr.  Drane.  "I  was  reading  of  it  when 
Simmons  came  to  call  me.  But  please  do  not  talk  any 
more;  let  me  examine  your  lungs."  While  the  doctor 
was  holding  his  ear  to  the  side  of  his  patient,  he  was 
wondering  how  it  came  to  pass  that  the  Reverend  Dr. 
Suydam  was  at  a  fire  in  Mulberry  Street.  It  was  a 
strange  place  for  a  respectable  man  to  be  found.  Dr. 
Drane  was  afraid  that  there  was  some  ground  for  the 
suspicions  which  Simmons  had  expressed. 

A  brief  examination  showed  him,  however,  that  he 
had  not  to  deal  with  a  case  of  alcoholism,  but  with  a  most 
dangerous  case  of  pneumonia.  The  whole  left  lung  was 
affected,  and  the  upper  portion  of  the  right  lung  was  in- 
volved. 

Dr.  Drane  told  Dr.  Suydam  that  he  must  be  very 
quiet,  and  asked  for  Mrs.  Suydam. 

304 


The  Shadow  of  Death 

"She  left  yesterday  for  Newport.  I  would  not  like 
you  to  trouble  her  unless  it  is  necessary,"  said  Dr.  Suy- 
dam. 

"Very  well,"  said  Dr.  Drane,  and  the  physician  left 
the  room  and  went  down-stairs  and  said  to  Simmons, 
"Simmons  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Simmons. 

"Dr.  Suydam  is  not  intoxicated  and  has  not  been  in- 
toxicated. He  is  a  very  sick  man.  It  is  a  most  aggra- 
vated case  of  pneumonia.  The  house  must  be  kept  per- 
fectly quiet,  and  no  one  must  under  any  circumstances 
see  Dr.  Suydam.  I  will  send  nurses  from  the  hospital, 
and  will  also  send  word  to  Mrs.  Suydam.  I  depend  on 
you  to  take  care  of  the  house  and  see  that  the  nurses  have 
everything  they  need." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Simmons,  "but  we  gives  warnin'  all 
the  same." 

"Never  mind  your  warnin',  Simmons.  Stay  where 
you  are  until  Dr.  Suydam  gets  better  or  dies.  It  will 
go  one  way  or  the  other  in  a  few  days." 

"Very  well,  sir,"  said  Simmons. 

Then  began  the  struggle  with  death,  in  the  great 
house  on  the  avenue.  The  nurses  came  and  kept  their 
watch  by  the  sick  bed.  Mrs.  Suydam  returned  from 
Newport  to  be  on  hand  in  case  the  worst  should  happen. 
She  went  to  her  husband's  room,  but  he  did  not  know  her, 
and  she  left  him  to  the  care  of  the  doctor  and  the  nurses. 
By  the  doctor's  orders  the  bells  were  muffled  and  straw 
was  laid  in  the  street.  The  news  of  the  Doctor's  illness 
drew  crowds  of  curious  people,  who  stood  all  day  gazing 
at  the  house.  The  report  was  that  the  great  preacher 
was  dying  of  delirium  tremens.  New  York  had  not  had 
such  a  sensation  for  years.  It  overshadowed  the  trial 
and  condemnation  of  the  leaders  of  the  political  ring. 

305 


The  Greater  Love 

The  newspapers  spoke  of  the  mysterious  illness  as 
arising  from  an  unsettled  mental  condition,  and  spoke 
of  the  strange  actions  of  the  sick  man. 

Meanwhile  the  sick  man  himself,  in  his  darkened 
room,  had  entered  that  awful  world  which  the  fevered 
brain  creates  for  itself.  He  seemed  to  himself  to  be 
going  on  long  journeys  seeking  for  something  which  he 
had  lost.  Now  he  was  walking  through  a  desert,  his 
feet  blistered  by  the  burning  sand.  "See,  see,"  he  whis- 
pered, "the  sand  is  covering  her.  Come,  come  quick, 
let  us  dig  her  out,  she  is  buried  under  the  sand."  Then 
he  would  try  to  get  out  of  bed,  saying  to  the  nurse  who 
restrained  him :  "Let  me  go,  let  me  go ;  if  I  don't  dig  her 
out  she  will  die." 

"You  can't  go,  Doctor,"  said  the  nurse.  "You  are 
too  sick." 

"I  must  go,"  said  the  Doctor,  "I  must  go,  I  must  go 
before  she  dies,  or  her  blood  will  be  on  my  hands." 

Then  the  Doctor  seemed  to  be  wandering  in  a  great 
city,  hunting  amid  the  millions  for  one  poor  lost  soul. 

"There  now,  there,"  he  said,  "she  is  going  down  that 
street ;  I  hear  her  cry.  Don't  you  hear  her  cry  ?  She  is 
in  pain;  she  is  dying.  Yes,  Keturah,  I  will  follow  her 
and  will  find  her.  What  did  you  say,  only  a  sheep,  only 
a  sheep?  Yes,  the  good  shepherd  gives  his  life  for  the 
sheep.  I  will  be  a  good  shepherd." 

In  his  delirium  the  Doctor  talked  in  this  way  to  him- 
self without  ceasing;  that  terrible  talk  that  runs  on  and 
on  until  the  listener  almost  goes  mad  himself. 

Mrs.  Suydam  came  into  the  room  from  time  to  time, 
but  she  did  not  stay.  She  could  not  bear  the  gloom  and 
the  terror  of  the  darkened  chamber. 

In  the  early  morning  when  the  fever  would  drop,  Dr. 

306 


The  Shadow  of  Death 

Suydam's  vision  would  change.  In  the  days  of  his  health 
he  had  always  been  fond  of  the  mountains,  and  now  he 
found  himself  wandering  in  them  looking  for  lost  sheep. 

Far  down  the  precipice  he  would  see  a  lamb  that  had 
fallen  and  was  dying. 

The  attending  nurse  gathered  all  this  from  his  talk. 
"Look  down  there,"  he  said,  "that  is  a  sheep,  is  it  not? 
It  is  dying,  but  I  can't  go  down  there,  can  I?  It  would 
kill  me ;  I  can't  go."  Then  he  would  look  frightened  and 
say :  "The  good  shepherd  giveth  life  for  the  sheep,"  and 
he  would  break  out  into  tears  and  cry,  "I  must  go,  I 
must  go.  I  am  a  good  shepherd." 

As  the  fever  fell  lower  and  lower  he  would  talk  of 
sheep  lost  on  the  ice  and  buried  in  the  snow.  "Look, 
look,"  he  said,  "there  they  are,  my  wife.  Katherine, 
cold,  so  cold,  my  wife  is  frozen.  Katherine  is  freezing". 
Come,  come  Kathie,  come  in  out  of  the  cold.  Why  do 
you  look  at  me  in  that  way?  Can't  you  come  in?" 

After  the  third  day  the  delirium  ceased  to  create 
visions.  The  brain  was  darkened  and  useless,  the  lips 
were  still.  There  was  no  sign  of  life  except  in  the  hands, 
which  moved  restlessly  over  the  bed-clothing,  and  in  the 
eyes.  The  man  lived  in  his  eyes.  There  was  in  them 
a  look  of  agony  as  if  they  were  the  prison  bars  through 
which  a  lost  soul  was  gazing.  Whoever  looked  into 
those  eyes  was  made  sick  by  their  piteous  stare.  Even 
Dr.  Drane,  accustomed  as  he  was  to  such  sights,  could 
not  look  at  them  unmoved. 

As  he  was  standing  by  the  bedside,  Mrs.  Suydam 
came  in  and  stood  by  him.  "How  is  he?"  said  she. 

"Very  low,"  said  the  doctor. 

"How  long  will  he  live?"  said  Mrs.  Suydam. 

"I  cannot  say,"  said  the  doctor.    "He  is  in  the  crisis 

307 


The  Greater  Love 

of  his  sickness.  The  fever  is  falling  rapidly.  All  now 
depends  on  the  heart's  action.  If  that  is  strong  enough 
to  carry  him  through  he  may  recover;  if  not,  he  will  be 
dead  in  a  few  hours." 

"What  is  the  matter  with  his  eyes?"  said  Mrs.  Suy- 
dam. 

"It  is  the  delirium  rising  from  the  fever,"  said  the 
doctor,  adding,  "they  are  strange.  I  never  saw  such  eyes 
before." 

It  was  in  the  dark  hours  of  the  early  morning  that 
Mrs.  Suydam  had  this  conversation  with  the  physician, 
at  the  bedside  of  her  husband.  Returning  to  her  room 
she  threw  herself  down  on  a  couch,  dressed  in  a  wrap- 
per, and  fell  off  into  an  uneasy  sleep,  out  of  which  she 
wakened  with  a  start,  to  see  the  agonized  eyes  of  Jacob 
Suydam  gazing  at  her.  They  fascinated  her  with  terror. 
She  saw  nothing  but  the  eyes,  no  form  nor  face,  only 
the  two  eyes.  She  cried :  "What  is  it,  Dr.  Suydam,  what 
is  it?"  As  she  spoke,  she  leaped  up  from  the  couch,  and 
found  herself  in  a  dark  room.  The  night  lamp  had  gone 
out,  and  Mrs.  Suydam  was  in  a  cold  sweat  from  her  head 
to  her  feet.  "He  is  dead,  he  is  dead,"  she  said,  and 
hastily  throwing  off  her  wrapper  and  putting  on  a  warm 
night  robe,  she  crept  into  bed  and  covered  her  head  with 
the  clothes.  As  warmth  came  back  to  her  body,  she  lost 
her  sense  of  terror,  and  in  its  place  came  a  feeling  of 
relief.  Dr.  Suydam  was  dead,  and  she  could,  if  she 
pleased,  marry  the  Duke  of  Senlac. 

As  she  dozed  away  the  second  time,  she  had  visions 
of  a  great  hall,  in  which  she  was  seated,  dressed  in  white 
satin  with  a  necklace  of  pearls  and  a  coronet  of  diamonds. 


308 


CHAPTER  XIX 

A  WATCHER  BY  THE  DOOR 

WHILE  Mrs.  Suydam  was  lying  asleep  in  her  warm 
bed,  dreaming  of  future  greatness,  another  woman  was 
crouching  outside  her  door  in  the  cold  and  dark,  praying 
for  the  recovery  of  Dr.  Suydam.  It  was  Keturah  Bain. 
Every  night  during  the  sickness,  Keturah  had  come  up 
in  the  hope  of  hearing  good  news.  There  was  a  bulletin 
issued  by  the  physician,  and  Keturah  got  what  comfort 
she  could  from  reading  it.  She  would  stay  about  the 
house  as  long  as  she  dared,  and  then  would  go  away 
only  to  come  back  again  the  next  night. 

On  this  night  of  the  crisis  the  bulletin  read:  "Dr. 
Suydam  is  very  low  and  is  failing  rapidly.  We  still 
have  some  hope,  but  fear  the  worst  may  happen  before 
morning." 

After  reading  these  words,  Keturah  went  down  into 
the  area  way  and  hid  herself  there  in  the  dark  and  cold. 
She  could  not  bear  to  go  home  while  Dr.  Suydam  was 
dying.  As  she  sat  in  her  dumb  agony,  she  was  not 
afraid  of  darkness  and  she  did  not  feel  the  cold.  She 
only  felt  that  the  last  bit  of  warmth  and  light  was  going 
out  of  her  life.  Her  friendship  with  Dr.  Suydam  had 
been  the  means  of  breaking  up  that  hardness  of  heart 
which  had  been  the  result  of  her  hard  life.  From  Dr. 

309 


The  Greater  Love 

Suydam  she  had  learned  that  God  is  sorry.     That  was 
now  her  creed. 

In  every  distress  she  would  say :  "God  cannot  help 
it,  but  then  God  is  sorry.  And  if  God  is  sorry,  then 
there  is  softness  and  pity  somewhere." 

But  this  night  even  that  poor  creed  failed  her.  As 
she  sat  in  the  cold  and  gazed  out  in  the  darkness,  know- 
ing that  her  friend  was  dying  in  that  great  house  where 
she  could  not  enter,  she  no  longer  believed  that  God  was 
sorry.  There  was  no  God  to  care  for  the  poor  and  the 
broken-hearted. 

With  every  passing  hour  Keturah  became  more  hope- 
less and  desolate.  She  pressed  her  cheek  against  the 
hard  stone  of  the  house,  finding  in  its  roughness  a  counter 
irritant  to  the  hardness  and  bitterness  of  her  own  heart. 
She  was  becoming  deathly  cold,  and  was  falling  into  that 
sleep  which  ends  the  coldness  of  life  in  the  coldness  of 
death;  when  suddenly  she  started  up,  wide  awake,  and 
saw  Dr.  Suydam  standing  before  her. 

"What  are  you  waiting  for,  Keturah  ?"  said  he. 

"I  am  waiting  for  you  to  die,"  said  Keturah. 

"Well,  I  am  dead.  You  can  go  home,"  answered  the 
figure.  Not  doubting  the  truth  of  her  vision,  Keturah 
rose  promptly  to  her  feet  and  staggered  to  the  street.  In 
a  moment  she  found  herself  in  the  arms  of  John  Sher- 
wood. "Why,  Keturah,  where  have  you  been?  I  have 
been  hunting  for  you  all  night,"  said  John. 

"I  have  been  down  in  the  area  waiting  for  Dr.  Suy- 
dam to  die,"  said  Keturah,  in  a  whisper. 

"Wont  you  come  home,  dear  ?"  said  John.  "You  will 
die  yourself  if  you  stay  any  longer  out  here  in  the  cold." 

"Yes,  John,"  said  Keturah;  "I  will  go  home.  It's 
no  use  waiting  any  longer.  Dr.  Suydam  is  dead.  Take 
me  home." 

310 


A  Watcher  by  the  Door 

"How  do  you  know  that  he  is  dead  ?"  said  John. 

"He  told  me  so,"  said  Keturah. 

John  put  the  poor  girl  into  a  street  car  and  so  took 
her  to  his  home,  where  his  mother  put  her  to  bed.  And 
there  Keturah  shivered  all  the  night  and  in  the  morning 
was  in  a  raging  fever. 


3" 


CHAPTER  XX 

A  NEW  LIFE 

NEITHER  the  dream  of  Mrs.  Suydam  nor  the  vision 
of  Keturah  Bain  came  true.  Dr.  Suydam  did  not  die. 
While  these  two  women,  one  within  and  one  without  the 
house,  were  disturbed  by  visions  which  they  interpreted, 
one  according  to  her  guilty  hopes,  and  the  other  accord- 
ing to  her  faithless  fears,  so  that  Mrs.  Suydam  went  to 
sleep,  and  Keturah  Bain  went  away  in  the  full  assur- 
ance that  Dr.  Suydam  was  dead,  Dr.  Suydam  was  in 
reality  coming  back  to  life. 

When  these  women  saw  him  wandering  about  in  the 
dark,  he  had  fallen  oft"  into  a  deep,  dreamless  sleep,  which 
indicated  to  the  nurse  who  watched  him  that  the  crisis 
was  past  and  the  patient  would  recover. 

When  Mrs.  Suydam  entered  the  room  next  morning, 
the  Doctor  was  still  sleeping  quietly;  so  quietly,  that  she 
supposed  he  was  dead.  She  turned  to  the  attendant  and 
said:  "When  did  he  die?" 

"He  is  not  dead,  madam,"  answered  the  nurse;  "on 
the  contrary,  he  is  in  a  natural  sleep  from  which  he  will 
awaken  greatly  refreshed,  and  if  nothing  happens  will 
make  a  speedy  and  perfect  recovery." 

Mrs.  Suydam  did  not  wish  at  that  moment  to  meet 
the  eyes  of  her  waking  husband,  so  she  turned  and  left 

313 


The  Greater  Love 

the  room.  She  went  wearily  about  her  morning  duties, 
thinking  somewhat  bitterly,  of  her  vision  in  the  night, 
and  how  she  would  have  to  meet  day  after  day  the  eyes 
of  Jacob  Suydam. 

The  recovery  of  Dr.  Suydam  was  very  rapid,  his  nat- 
urally robust  constitution  and  his  temperate  life  were 
greatly  in  his  favor,  and  it  required  but  a  few  weeks  to 
put  him  on  his  feet  again. 

Outwardly,  Dr.  Suydam  had  been  greatly  changed 
by  his  sickness.  His  beard  had  grown  and  covered  his 
face  with  its  soft,  silken  hair.  It  was  a  black  beard,  in 
which  a  tinge  of  gray  showed  here  and  there.  The 
change  which  this  beard  made  in  the  appearance  of  Dr. 
Suydam  was  very  striking.  Instead  of  the  smooth- 
faced ecclesiastic,  his  friends  saw  a  bearded  man,  one  in 
whose  countenance  was  to  be  seen  natural  kindness  more 
than  saintly  severity. 

The  first  time  Katherine  saw  him  after  his  sickness, 
she  made  sport  of  his  beard. 

"Oh,  my  Daddy,"  she  said,  "how  nice  you  look !  You 
do  not  look  at  all  like  a  parson,  for  all  the  world,  you  look 
just  like  a  man." 

"Well,  Kathie,"  said  Dr.  Suydam,  "I  am  a  man,  am 
I  not?" 

"Yes,  you  are,  but  you  didn't  use  to  be,"  said  the  girl. 

"What  did  I  use  to  be?"  said  the  Doctor,  smiling. 

"Oh,  you  used  to  be  a  parson,"  answered  Katherine. 

"And  is  not  a  parson  a  man,  you  wicked  girl?" 

"No,  a  parson  is  a  parson,  a  priest  is  a  priest." 

"So  you  think  the  priest  shaves  off  his  manhood  with 
his  beard,  do  you?" 

"Yes,  Daddy,  that  is  what  I  think.  A  parson  loses 
a  good  deal  of  his  manhood  with  his  beard.  You  are 
going  to  shave  again,  are  you  not?" 


A  New  Life 

"No,  not  right  away,"  said  the  Doctor.  "I  am  going 
to  know  for  a  little  while,  at  least,  how  it  feels  to  be  a 
man.  I  suppose  you  think  that  Dipford's  whiskers  make 
a  man  of  him." 

"Yes,  indeed  I  do,  Daddy.  If  it  were  not  for  those 
beautiful  sides,  which  are  so  English  you  know,  I  would 
never  have  set  my  heart  on  Dipford.  By  the  way, 
Daddy,  I  have  not  forgiven  you  for  preaching  that  dread- 
ful sermon,  about  our  selling  ourselves  for  titles  and  all 
that." 

"I  am  sorry,  Katherine,  that  I  had  to  preach  that 
sermon,  but  I  just  had  to  do  it.  Things  are  very  bad  in 
our  social  life,  worse  than  you  imagine." 

"Worse  than  I  imagine?"  said  Katherine.  "Well; 
if  they  are  worse  than  I  imagine  they  must  be  pretty  bad. 
A  girl  in  our  set  does  not  have  to  call  upon  her  imagina- 
tion very  much.  What  she  sees  and  hears  is  enough. 
Your  sermon  was  true,  but  it  was  exceedingly  foolish 
for  all  that,"  said  the  girl,  with  a  toss  of  her  head. 

"Why  foolish  ?"  asked  the  Doctor. 

"Foolish,  because  it  did  no  good.  Do  you  think  I 
am  going  to  give  up  my  title  and  my  place  in  the  Eng- 
lish aristocracy  because  Daddy  thinks  the  buying  of  a 
title  is  not  the  highest  use  to  which  I  can  put  my  beauty 
and  my  wealth?  And  do  you  think  others  are  going  to 
forsake  their  favorite  sins  all  on  account  of  a  sermon? 
Not  much,  Daddy,  not  much.  Fashionable  society  just 
dotes  on  sermons  as  long  as  it  doesn't  have  to  practice 
what  the  sermon  teaches;  then  society  votes  sermons  a 
bore  and  the  preacher  a  nuisance.  I  am  afraid,  Daddy, 
that  one  sermon  has  cost  you  your  popularity. " 

"Well,  Katherine,"  said  Dr.  Suydam,  "there  is  no 
great  harm  in  that.  Popularity  is  a  very  poor  thing, 


The  Greater  Love 

easily  gained  and  more  easily  lost.  And  it  will  not  make 
any  difference  to  me,  as  I  am  not  going  to  preach  any 
more  sermons,  at  least  not  for  a  long  time  to  come." 

"Why  not,  Daddy,  dear?"  said  Katherine.  "What 
are  you  going  to  do?" 

"I  expect  I  shall  have  to  go  abroad,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"Go  abroad,"  said  Katherine,  "oh,  how  prosaic!  I 
thought  you  would  say,  I  am  going  to  stand  on  the 
Washington  Monument  in  Union  Square  and  prophesy 
against  the  wickedness  of  the  city.  But  going  abroad," 
said  the  girl,  laughing,  "going  abroad,  why  that  is  the 
American  cure-all.  When  a  man  succeeds  in  business 
he  goes  abroad,  and  when  he  fails  he  goes  abroad.  If 
he  is  a  great  general  and  statesman  he  goes  abroad,  and 
if  he  is  a  great  politician  and  rogue  he  goes  abroad. 
When  a  woman  is  married  she  goes  abroad,  and  when 
she  is  divorced  she  goes  abroad.  I  did  think,  Daddy, 
after  the  great  sensation  you  made,  you  would  do  some- 
thing more  original  than  to  go  abroad." 

"I  would  not  go,  my  dear,  if  I  did  not  have  to  go. 
There  are  some  matters  in  London  that  I  must  look  into," 
said  the  Doctor. 

"Oh,  Daddy  mine,  you  are  not  going  to  look  into 
the  past  record  of  Dipford,  are  you?  If  you  are,  please 
don't.  I  am  not  interested  in  the  past  record  of  Dipford. 
It  is  his  future  record  that  I  am  after." 

"My  going  has  nothing  to  do  with  Dipford,"  said 
the  Doctor. 

This  conversation  was  broken  off  abruptly  by  the 
entrance  of  Mrs.  Suydam  and  Dr.  Drane. 

Dr.  Drane  found  his  patient  somewhat  excited,  and 
scolded  Katherine  for  talking  to  him  so  long.  Dr.  Suy- 
dam smiled  and  said,  "Katherine  was  not  to  blame." 

316 


A  New  Life 

He  had  kept  her  with  him  as  he  was  lonely,  but  he  would 
be  good  now  and  go  to  sleep. 

In  a  few  weeks  the  Doctor  had  so  far  recovered  that 
he  was  able  to  go  out,  and  the  first  thing  he  did  was  to 
visit  Keturah  Bain  in  Rivington  Street.  He  called  on 
Sunday,  as  that  was  the  only  day  when  he  could  find  her 
at  home.  Keturah's  chill  and  fever  had  lasted  only  a 
day.  She  said  she  could  not  afford  to  be  sick,  and  rose 
up  the  next  morning  and  went  to  work.  The  knowledge 
that  Dr.  Suydam  was  still  living  was  a  comfort  to  her. 
She  knew  that  as  soon  as  he  could  he  would  come  to  see 
her  and  would  help  her  to  find  Abigail. 

A  letter  had  come  from  Abigail  saying  that  she  was 
in  London,  and  expected  soon  to  be  married.  She  begged 
Keturah's  pardon  for  leaving  her,  but  hoped  when  she 
was  married  she  could  help  her  more  than  by  teaching 
school. 

The  letter  was  a  comfort  to  Keturah,  assuring  her 
as  it  did  that  Abigail  was  alive,  but  it  also  filled  her  with 
terror.  She  felt  that  Abigail  was  deceiving  herself  into 
the  belief  that  she  would  be  married.  Keturah  knew  too 
well  that  girls  who  allow  themselves  to  live  as  Abigail 
was  living,  seldom  marry.  Her  one  thought  was  to  get 
the  girl  home  and  save  her  from  a  worse  fate  than  that 
which  had  already  befallen  her. 

When  he  visited  her,  Dr.  Suydam  found  her  con- 
sumed with  anxiety.  She  was  afraid  that  if  something 
were  not  done  at  once,  Abigail  would  be  lost  forever. 

Keturah  did  not  recognize  Dr.  Suydam  when  he 
came  into  the  room  where  she  was  sitting.  It  was  not 
until  he  spoke  that  she  knew  it  was  her  friend,  who  had 
come  back  from  the  gates  of  the  grave. 

"Oh,  Doctor  Suydam!"  she  exclaimed,  "I  did  not 
know  you." 

317 


The  Greater  Love 

"I  suppose  not,"  said  he.  "Nothing  changes  a  man's 
appearance  so  quickly  as  his  beard.  Mine  has  grown 
during  my  sickness,  and  I  do  not  care  at  present  to  take 
it  off." 

"I  am  sorry,"  said  Keturah,  "I  shall  get  used  to  it 
in  time,  but  now  I  seem  to  have  lost  my  prophet." 

"Your  prophet  it  may  be,  but  not  your  friend,"  said 
the  Doctor. 

"I  am  sure  of  that,  Doctor  Suydam,  and  never  was  I 
more  in  need  of  a  friend  than  now." 

"Have  you  heard  anything?"  said  the  Doctor. 

"Yes,  I  have  heard  from  Abigail.  She  is  in  London. 
She  writes  that  she  expects  to  be  married ;  but  you  know 
what  that  means." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Dr.  Suydam.  "It  may  mean 
more  than  you  think.  It  is  possible  that  Abigail  is  mar- 
ried. At  any  rate,  I  will  go  to  London  and  find  her  and 
see  that  justice  is  done  her.  At  least  I  can  find  her  and 
bring  her  home." 

Keturah  rose  up  and  went  and  gave  both  her  hands 
to  Dr.  Suydam,  saying:  "You  must  not  sacrifice  your- 
self for  us,  Doctor,  indeed  you  must  not." 

"My  dear  child,"  said  the  Doctor,  "it  is  not  a  sacri- 
fice; if  it  is,  it  is  a  necessary  sacrifice.  I  cannot  go  on 
any  longer  in  my  work  at  Saint  Nicholas.  For  a  time 
at  least,  I  must  have  quiet  and  change.  I  can  get  that 
best  by  going  abroad,  and  if  I  can  find  your  sister  and 
save  her  from  further  ruin,  I  shall  look  upon  it  is  an  act 
of  reparation  for  the  wrong  which  has  been  done  her 
by  a  member  of  my  household." 

"When  are  you  going?"  said  Keturah. 

"I  am  going  to-morrow,  and  have  come  to  say  good- 
bye. Where  are  you  to  live?  Here  with  Mrs.  Sher- 
wood?" said  the  Doctor. 

318 


A  New  Life 

"Yes,  for  a  while.  There  are  two  vacant  rooms  irf 
the  back  loft  where  I  can  stay  with  father  until  I  hear 
from  Abigail." 

"Wont  you  marry  John  Sherwood  now?"  said  the 
Doctor.  "He  is  a  good  man,  and  has  waited  for  you  a 
long  time." 

"I  cannot  marry,"  said  Keturah,  "until  I  hear  from 
Abigail.  John  has  waited  so  long  that  he  has  formed 
the  habit  of  waiting." 

"Well,"  said  Doctor  Suydam,  "if  I  find  Abigail  and 
bring  her  home  and  provide  for  her,  then  you  and  John 
must  marry." 

"Yes,"  said  Keturah.  "When  Abigail  is  found,  then 
John  and  I  will  marry  and  go  and  live  somewhere  in 
quiet  for  the  rest  of  our  lives,  which  wont  be  long.  Poor 
John,  when  he  marries  me,  if  he  ever  does,  he  is  going 
to  marry  a  poor,  old,  wornout  woman." 

Dr.  Suydam  gave  Keturah  his  blessing,  and  went  out 
in  search  of  the  sheep  that  was  lost. 


319 


CHAPTER  XXI 

A  GOODLY  INHERITANCE 

KETURAII  went  down  to  the  pier  the  morning  that  Dr. 
Suydam  sailed  for  England,  to  bid  him  good-bye,  and  to 
get  what  little  comfort  she  could  from  his  words  of  en- 
couragement. No  one  else  had  come  to  see  the  Doctor 
on  the  day  of  his  departure,  as  he  had  kept  the  matter 
of  his  going  a  secret.  His  name  did  not  appear  in  the 
list  of  first-class  cabin  passengers,  and  no  one  ever 
thought  of  looking  in  the  list  of  the  second  cabin  for  so 
distinguished  a  name  as  that  of  the  Reverend  Dr.  Suy- 
dam. Had  they  looked,  the  plain  name  of  Jacob  Suydam 
would  never  have  attracted  attention.  Dropping  his 
title  disguised  Dr.  Suydam's  name  as  effectually  as  grow- 
ing his  beard  disguised  his  face. 

No  one  recognized  him  as  he  stood  on  the  after  deck 
talking  to  Keturah.  He  was  only  one  of  the  crowd  of 
nameless  people  that  filled  the  steamer  with  noise  and 
confusion.  The  time  for  sailing  had  arrived,  and  Dr. 
Suydam  stooped  and  kissed  Keturah  reverently  on  the 
brow,  saying:  "Keep  your  courage,  my  child.  Be  sure 
I  will  do  all  I  can  for  Abigail." 

"I  am  sure  you  will,  Doctor,"  said  Keturah,  "that  is 
the  only  thing  that  gives  me  any  hope.  If  you  do  not 
find  her,  she  is  lost  forever." 

321 


The  Greater  Love 

"I  will  find  her  if  she  is  alive,  and  will  bring  her  back 
to  you,  as  a  wife  if  I  can,  but  anyhow,  my  dear,  as  a 
sister." 

"Yes,  Doctor,  as  a  sister.  No  matter  what  has  hap- 
pened to  her,  or  what  she  has  done,  she  is  and  always 
will  be  my  sister."  The  cry  "all  ashore"  was  heard,  and 
Keturah  hurried  down  the  gang  plank  to  the  pier,  and 
stood  watching  while  the  great  steamer  swung  out  into 
the  river  and  steamed  down  the  bay.  The  poor  girl 
watched  the  ship  until  it  was  lost  to  sight,  and  then  with 
a  sad  yet  hopeful  heart,  went  homeward. 

Keturah's  life  had  been  wholly  changed  within  the 
last  few  weeks.  The  objects  of  her  lifelong  care  had 
been  suddenly  taken  away.  Her  mother  and  Benjamin 
were  dead,  Abigail  had  gone,  and  only  her  father  was 
left. 

Captain  Bain  had,  as  Keturah  expected,  lost  his  posi- 
tion in  the  Court  House  and  was  wandering  aimlessly 
about  the  streets,  losing  what  little  self-respect  was  left 
him.  He  waited  in  Maloney's  saloon  for  some  one  to 
treat  him  at  the  bar.  Maloney  no  longer  gave  him  defer- 
ence. He  allowed  the  fallen  politician  a  corner  in  his 
saloon,  and  there  the  Captain  would  sit  and  sleep  all  day 
and  far  into  the  night,  and  would  often  wander  all  night 
in  the  street,  being  unable  to  find  his  way  to  his  new 
home  in  Rivington  Street.  His  condition  was  a  constant 
source  of  anxiety  to  Keturah,  which  perhaps  at  the  time 
was  a  good  thing  as  it  kept  her  from  brooding  over  the 
possible  fate  of  Abigail. 

Keturah  had  also  to  look  after  Mother  Magrath,  who 
since  the  fire  had  been  rapidly  failing.  She  was  still  in 
the  hospital,  and  Keturah  visited  her  nearly  every  even- 
ing. She  found  the  poor  woman  pining  for  her  cabin 

322 


A  Goodly  Inheritance 

and  for  her  boy.  "Oh,  Keturah,  mavourneen,"  she  cried, 
"wont  ye  be  afther  takin'  me  home  and  bliss  me  eyes  wid 
a  sight  o'  me  bye  ?  It  aint  the  likes  o'  here  I  can  die.  The 
banshee  'ull  niver  come  here,  niver,  and  I  can't  die  wid- 
out  de  banshee." 

"Well,  mother,"  said  Keturah,  "there  is  a  room  in  our 
house  in  Rivington  Street.  I  will  take  you  there  if  you 
want  to  go." 

"Rivington  Street.  Where's  that  ?"  said  Mother  Ma- 
grath. 

"It  is  where  I  am  living  now.  You  know,  mother, 
that  our  house  and  your  cottage  were  burned  down  in  the 
great  fire." 

"Burnt  down,  did  ye  say,  me  darlin',  burnt  down? 
Ochone,  ochone !  And  me  books,  did  me  books  burn  too, 
mavourneen,  did  me  books  burn?"  said  the  old  woman, 
crying  and  shaking  her  head." 

"No,  mother.  I  have  your  books.  They  were  in  your 
apron,  when  I  carried  you  out  of  the  cabin,  and  I  tied 
them  up  in  a  bundle,  and  am  keeping  them  for  you." 

"And  '11  be  takin'  me  home,  and  let  me  see  the  bye?" 

"Yes,  mother,  you  shall  go  home,  and  I  will  send  for 
Shinar  to  come  and  see  you." 

Keturah  was  longing  herself  to  see  Shinar,  so  she  was 
the  more  willing  to  grant  the  request  of  Mother  Magrath. 
That  night  a  letter  went  to  Shinar,  inclosing  money  for 
his  railway  ticket  and  asking  him  to  come  home  at  once, 
as  Mother  Magrath  was  dying. 

The  next  evening  Shinar  made  his  appearance  in  Riv- 
ington Street.  When  Keturah  saw  him  she  gave  an 
exclamation  of  surprise.  She  had  sent  a  street  Arab 
away,  and  a  young  gentleman  had  come  back  to  her. 
During  the  few  months  of  his  absence,  that  marvellous 

323 


The  Greater  Love 

change  had  come  over  Shinar,  which  comes  over  every 
boy  when  he  ceases  to  be  a  boy  and  becomes  a  man. 
The  high  treble  voice  had  become  a  rich  baritone,  the 
slouching  form  was  erect;  the  tousled  hair  was  combed 
into  some  kind  of  order,  a  dark  moustache  shaded  the 
upper  •  lip ;  only  the  black  merry  eyes  were  left  of  the 
Shinar  who  had  gone  into  the  country  a  few  months 
before. 

He  had  come  out  of  the  old  street  life  as  a  butterfly 
comes  out  of  its  cocoon,  and  by  his  appearance  and  bear- 
ing gave  assurance  of  that  good  blood  that  was  in  his 
veins. 

Keturah  looked  at  him  in  silence,  and  then  throwing 
her  arms  around  him  said :  "It  is  Shinar,  after  all." 

"Sure  it's  Shinar,"  said  the  youth.  "Who  did  you 
think  it  was?" 

"I  thought  it  was  the  Marquis  of  Dipford,  that  we 
have  been  reading  about.  Who  ever  would  expect  to  see 
Shinar  with  a  clean  face  and  a  black  moustache?"  And 
Keturah  held  the  lad  at  arm's  length,  laughing  heartily. 

"Where  I  come  from,"  said  the  boy,  "it's  easy  to  keep 
clean,  'cause  there's  plenty  o'  water  and  no  dirt,  and  as 
for  me  moustache,"  he  added,  stroking  it  fondly,  "why, 
things  grows  faster  in  the  country  than  they  do  in  the 
city." 

"But  you  don't  like  the  country,  Shinar,"  said  Ketu- 
rah. "It's  too  noisy  for  you.  Just  listen  and  see  how 
quiet  the  city  is." 

Shinar  listened  to  the  roar  of  the  city  and  laughed. 
Shaking  his  hair  out  of  his  eyes,  he  said :  "Yes,  I  do  like 
the  country.  I  wouldn't  live  in  your  dirty  old  city  if  you 
would  give  it  to  me.  I  am  going  to  be  a  farmer." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  my  boy,"  said  Keturah,  "but 
what  has  changed  your  mind  so  suddenly?" 

324 


A  Goodly  Inheritance 

"Oh,  nothin'  aint  changed  it.  It  just  changed  itself. 
At  first  I  couldn't  stand  the  country  at  all.  It  was  lone- 
some like  and  so  noisy,  birds  singin',  roosters  crowin', 
cows  bellowin'  all  the  time.  But  after  a  while  I  got  used 
to  them  kind  o'  noises  and  didn't  hear  'em  at  all.  Now 
when  I  come  down  and  hear  the  rattle  and  the  bang  of  the 
city  streets,  I  wonder  if  I  was  ever  a  boot-black,  runnin* 
about  cussin'  and  swearin'.  We  don't  cuss  and  swear  to 
our  house  in  the  country,  'cause  Father  Grover  is  a  deacon 
in  the  church,  and  he  don't  allow  it." 

"Well,  Shinar,"  said  Keturah,  "I  am  glad  to  hear  that 
you  have  made  up  your  mind  to  be  a  farmer.  Maybe 
when  I  am  an  old  woman  you  will  let  me  come  and  live 
with  you  and  I  needn't  go  to  the  poor-house." 

"Come  and  live  with  me !"  said  the  boy,  "you  may  bet 
your  life  on  that.  You'll  have  the  best  room  in  the  house, 
but  say,  Keturah,  what'll  John  say  to  that?  He'll  be 
wantin'  to  come  too,  wont  he?" 

"Oh,  John'll  be  married  to  a  nice  young  woman  by 
that  time,"  said  Keturah,  shaking  her  head.  "But  come, 
Shinar,  we  must  go  and  see  Mother  Magrath." 

When  they  reached  the  hospital  they  found  the  bed 
of  Mother  Magrath  surrounded  by  a  screen.  The  sister 
said  the  old  woman  was  very  low,  probably  dying.  "We 
may  see  her?"  said  Keturah. 

"Certainly,"  said  the  sister. 

"Look,  Mother  Magrath,  look,  I  have  brought  some 
one  to  see  you."  And  Keturah,  taking  Shinar  by  the 
hand,  led  him  up  to  the  side  of  the  bed. 

The  old  woman  turned  her  gray  head  on  the  pillow 
and  looked  at  the  boy  without  the  least  sign  of  recogni- 
tion in  her  eyes.  She  turned  to  Keturah,  and  said  in  a 
whisper:  "Who's  that?" 

325 


The  Greater  Love 

"It's  me,  mother.  It's  Shinar.  Don't  you  know  me  ?" 
said  the  boy. 

The  old  woman  started  up  and  sat  straight  in  her  bed 
and  looked  eagerly  in  the  face  of  the  youth.  Then  she 
shook  her  withered  hand  in  that  face  and  screamed :  "Ye 
lie,  ye  lie,  ye  dirty  spalpeen !  Me  Shinar  was  a  bye  wid  a 
dirty  face  and  wid  a  muck  o'  hair,  wid  a  hickory  shirt  and 
a  gallass.  Oh,  holy  Vargin,  Mither  o'  God,"  she  cried, 
falling  back  on  her  pillow.  "They  have  kilt  me  bye  and 
now  they'll  be  afther  stalin'  the  money."  She  looked 
wildly  about  for  a  moment,  clapped  her  hands  together 
and  cried,  "The  banshee,  the  banshee !"  Then  the  hands 
fell  upon  the  bed,  the  eyes  were  set  and  the  woman  was 
dead. 

"Poor  mother,"  said  Keturah,  "the  sight  of  you  has 
killed  her.  I  ought  to  have  thought  that  she  would  not 
know  you." 

Shinar  took  the  dead  hand  in  his  and  said :  "Poor  old 
mother,  poor  old  mother !  She  wasn't  much  of  a  mother, 
but  she  was  all  I  ever  had  except  you,  Keturah,  except 
you.  You  have  always  been  my  real  mother." 

Keturah  told  the  sister  in  charge  that  she  would  send 
for  the  body  of  the  old  woman  and  see  that  it  was  properly 
buried.  Then  she  and  Shinar  went  home. 

When  she  reached  the  house,  Keturah  remembered 
the  books  which  she  had  taken  from  Mother  Magrath  on 
the  night  of  the  fire.  She  opened  the  package  and  saw 
that  they  were  bank-books.  There  were  four  of  them. 
And  looking  them  over  Keturah  found  to  her  astonish- 
ment that  Mother  Magrath  had  between  eight  and  ten 
thousand  dollars  on  deposit  in  various  savings  banks. 
She  had  been  putting  in  and  never  drawing  out,  and  her 
savings  for  all  these  years,  with  interest,  made  a  small 
fortune. 

326 


A  Goodly  Inheritance 

After  she  had  studied  the  books  for  some  time  Keturah 
looked  up  and  said :  "Shinar,  you  can  have  the  best  farm 
in  the  country  whenever  you  want  it.  You  are  a  rich 
man." 

"How's  that?"  said  Shinar. 

"Mother  Magrath  is  dead  and  you  are  her  heir.  She 
has  left  you  nearly  ten  thousand  dollars." 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  cried  the  boy. 
-"I  mean  just  what  I  say,  I  had  her  make  a  will  in  your 
favor.    The  will  is  in  the  safe  at  the  office.    I  thought  the 
old  woman  had  a  little  money  which  ought  to  be  yours 
when  she  died,  but  I  never  dreamed  she  had  so  much." 

"What  an  old  miser !"  said  Shinar. 

That  night  Mother  Magrath  had  her  wake.  But  it 
was  not  the  wild  Irish  wake  that  her  soul  longed  for. 
Only  Keturah  and  Shinar  watched  beside  her  coffin. 

As  they  sat  out  the  long  hours  of  the  night  Keturah 
told  Shinar  all  about  Abigail.  The  poor  lad  listened  to 
the  story  with  a  breaking  heart,  and  when  it  was  finished 
all  of  his  young  manhood  went  out  of  him  and  he  laid  his 
head  on  Keturah's  knees  and  cried  like  a  child. 

He  said :  "What  do  I  care  for  the  money  now  ?  Take 
it,  Keturah,  take  it  and  spend  every  cent  of  it  hunting  for 
Abigail  till  you  find  her.  Only  leave  me  enough  to  go 
after  the  man.  I'll  hunt  him  all  round  the  world  and 
when  I  find  him  I'll  kill  him." 

"No,  you  wont,  Shinar,"  said  Keturah.  "You'll  keep 
your  money  and  buy  a  farm  and  marry  some  good  woman 
who  will  love  you.  Dr.  Suydam  has  gone  to  hunt  for 
Abigail.  He'll  find  her  and  bring  her  back,  but  if  he 
does  she  can  never  marry  you." 

"Why  can't  she  marry  me  ?"  cried  the  boy. 

"Because  she  doesn't  love  you,"  said  Keturah,  "and 

327 


The  Greater  Love 

besides,  she  is  another  man's  wife  or  else  she  is  a  bad 
woman." 

"She  aint  a  bad  woman,"  said  the  boy.  "You  oughtn't 
to  say  she's  a  bad  woman,  and  if  she  is  a  bad  woman,  I'll 
marry  her  and  make  her  good." 

"Poor  boy,"  said  Keturah,  as  she  stroked  his  head. 

The  next  day  the  body  of  Mother  Magrath  was  taken 
to  the  church,  and  a  mass  was  said  for  the  repose  of  her 
soul.  And  she  had  a  funeral  according  to  her  desire — 
Mulberry  Bend  was  there,  and  two-and-twenty  hacks  fol- 
lowed the  hearse. 


328 


BOOK  THIRD 
w   * 

The  Great  Redemption 


CHAPTER  I 

WICKED  LONDON  S  WAIFS  AND  STRAYS 

WHEN  Dr.  Suydam  reached  London,  he  found  that 
he  was  too  late.  Robert  Bullet  and  the  Marquis  of  Dip- 
ford  had  left  England  for  a  voyage  in  the  Mediterranean 
Sea  and  the  Indian  Ocean,  meaning  to  go  as  far  as  Cal- 
cutta. 

Dr.  Suydam  cautiously  made  inquiries,  but  could  gain 
no  knowledge  of  Abigail  Bain.  He  had  letters  from  the 
Duke  of  Senlac  that  admitted  him  as  a  visitor  to  the 
various  clubs  in  London  that  Dipford  frequented,  and  he 
made  the  acquaintance  of  a  number  of  Dipford's  friends. 
He  asked  one  of  these,  a  young  nobleman,  if  any  ladies 
had  gone  with  the  Marquis  of  Dipford  and  Mr.  Bullet. 

"Ladies,"  said  his  lordship,  "I  think  not.  I  know 
that  Marie  Du  Pre  has  not  gone  with  Dipford,  and  I 
don't  think  the  fellow  Bullet  had  any  woman  with  him." 

"You  are  sure  of  that  ?"  said  the  Doctor. 

"Yes,"  said  the  man.  "I  was  down  at  Southampton 
the  day  Dipford  sailed,  and  there  wasn't  a  woman  on 
board  the  yacht.  Englishmen  don't  take  women  on  a 
voyage  like  that.  Women  are  a  bore  on  shipboard." 

"Thank  you,  my  lord,"  said  Dr.  Suydam.  "You 
spoke  of  a  certain  woman  just  now.  What  did  you  say 
her  name  was  ?" 

33T 


The  Greater  Love 

"Marie  Du  Pre,"  said  his  lordship. 

"Marie  Du  Pre,"  said  Dr.  Suydam,  "I  have  heard 
that  name,  Du  Pre.  Who  is  she?" 

"Marie  Du  Pre,"  answered  his  lordship,  "is  one  of 
the  most  brilliant  women  of  our  under  world.  She  has 
ruined  the  estate  of  Senlac.  She  had  the  Duke  for  her 
lover  until  she  was  tired  of  him,  then  she  took  up  with 
Dickie  FitzOsborn,  who  was  then  Marquis  of  Dipford, 
and  killed  him,  then  she  laid  hold  of  Tommy,  the  present 
Marquis,  and  has  nearly  killed  him." 

"A  very  dangerous  woman,"  said  Dr.  Suydam. 

"Yes,  but  a  danger  that  men  court,"  said  the  noble- 
man. "Men  of  the  highest  rank  and  fortune  seek  the 
favor  of  Marie  Du  Pre.  To  be  her  lover  for  a  week  is  a 
title  of  nobility." 

"Where  could  I  see  this  woman  ?"  said  Dr.  Suydam. 

"Ah,"  said  his  lordship,  looking  at  Dr.  Suydam 
through  his  monocle.  "You  wish  to  see  Marie,  do  you? 
Well,  I  suppose  that  when  you  parsons  are  travelling 
mufti  you  have  your  fling  as  well  as  the  rest  of  us.  If 
you  wish  to  see  the  most  famous  courtesan  in  England 
you  may  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  some  night  at  supper  in 
the  Continental  on  Regent  Street.  Marie  is  not  as  select 
as  she  used  to  be.  She  is  falling  pretty  fast.  She'll  be 
on  the  street  in  another  year." 

"I  beg  your  lordship's  pardon,"  said  Dr.  Suydam, 
"but  I  wish  to  see  this  woman,  because  I  hope  she  can 
give  me  some  information  that  I  am  in  search  of." 

"You  can  go  to  no  better  source  of  information  in 
London,"  said  his  lordship.  "A  man  can  learn  more 
from  Marie  Du  Pre  in  an  hour  than  he  can  from  any 
other  woman  in  a  year." 

"Your  lordship  misjudges  me,"   said  Dr.   Suydam, 

332 


Wicked  London's  Waifs  and  Strays 

bowing  and  leaving  the  club.  His  lordship,  still  holding 
his  monocle  to  his  eye,  looked  after  him  and  smiled. 

When  Dr.  Suydam  reached  his  hotel  on  the  embank- 
ment, he  was  very  ill  at  ease.  He  saw  at  once  that  if  he 
continued  his  search  for  Abigail  he  would  lay  himself 
open  to  the  gravest  suspicions.  No  one  would  ever  be- 
lieve that  he  sought  the  company  of  evil  women  for  any 
other  than  an  evil  purpose.  He  was  filled  with  disgust, 
as  he  thought  of  the  Englishman  following  him  with  his 
insolent  stare,  and  made  up  his  mind  that  he  would  drop 
the  whole  business.  If  Abigail  was  lost  in  London,  then 
Abigail  was  lost  and  that  was  the  end  of  it. 

After  dinner  Dr.  Suydam  sat  for  a  while  in  his  room 
thinking  what  he  should  do  and  finding  himself  very  rest- 
less he  went  out  to  walk  away  his  nervousness.  He 
wandered  along  the  embankment  until  he  came  to  West- 
minister, and  strayed  through  the  streets  about  the  Abbey 
until  he  heard  the  clock  strike  eleven.  Then  turning 
homeward,  passing  through  Trafalgar  Square  and  hardly 
knowing  which  way  he  went,  found  himself  in  front  of  a 
brilliantly  lighted  hotel.  Feeling  tired  and  hungry,  he 
went  into  the  hotel  to  get  some  supper. 

An  attendant  in  uniform  showed  him  to  the  supper 
room  upstairs. 

When  Dr.  Suydam  entered  the  room  he  started  back, 
and  fell  against  the  attendant.  He  saw  that  it  was  no 
place  for  a  respectable  man,  much  less  a  minister  of  the 
Gospel.  "What  place  is  this?"  said  he  to  the  man  in 
uniform. 

"It  is  the  Continental,  sir,"  said  the  man. 

"The  Continental,"  said  Dr.  Suydam  in  an  undertone. 
"That  is  the  place  where  the  woman,  Marie  Du  Pre., 
sometimes  comes?" 

333 


The  Greater  Love 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  man.  "She  is  'ere  to-night  with 
my  Lord  Erdel,  that's  'er  settin'  at  the  third  table  under 
the  mirror." 

Dr.  Suydam  went  in  and  took  a  table  in  a  corner  where 
he  could  watch  the  woman,  and  ordered  a  chop  and  some 
ale.  Women  sitting  about  in  evening  dress  cast  glances 
in  his  direction  expecting  an  invitation  to  take  supper 
with  him.  As  he  paid  no  attention  whatever  to  them, 
they  began  to  indulge  in  slighting  remarks  at  his  expense. 

Dr.  Suydam,  becoming  ashamed  of  his  surroundings, 
was  about  to  leave  the  place  when  he  was  attracted  by  the 
face  of  the  woman  whom  he  was  watching.  She  half 
turned  her  face  and  showed  him  one  of  the  most  remark- 
able profiles  that  he  had  ever  seen  in  his  life.  A  low  brow 
shaded  by  heavy  dark  hair,  a  high  arched  nose,  a  cheek 
of  ashy  paleness,  a  mouth  quivering  at  its  corner  with 
some  strong  emotion  and  a  firm  under  jaw  made  up  a 
face  that  one  could  not  help  looking  at  the  second  time. 
It  was  the  face  of  a  woman  born  to  greatness.  Dr.  Suy- 
dam was  fascinated  by  it  and  wondered  how  such  a 
woman  came  to  be  in  such  a  place. 

As  he  was  gazing  at  her  she  suddenly  turned  about 
and  looked  him  full  in  the  eye.  And  then  there  came  into 
her  face  such  a  look  of  fear  as  Dr.  Suydam  had  never 
seen  on  human  face  before;  the  great  black  eyes  dilated 
with  horror,  the  lips  of  the  woman  became  bloodless,  and 
a  spasm  passed  over  her  face  from  the  chin  to  the  eye- 
lashes. 

Saying  something  impatiently  to  her  companion  at 
table,  the  woman  pushed  back  the  chair  and  rising  hastily, 
passed  out  of  the  room.  As  she  did  so  Dr.  Suydam  saw 
that  she  was  divinely  tall  and  her  form  moulded  as  if  it 
were  a  model  for  Phidias. 

334 


Wicked  London's  Waifs  and  Strays 

Seeing  her  standing  and  shivering  in  the  hallway,  the 
Doctor  stepped  up  and  said:  "I  beg  your  pardon, 
madam,  but  may  I  speak  to  you  for  a  moment?" 

The  woman  looked  him  straight  in  the  eye,  and  after 
a  second  or  two  said :  "Yes,  but  not  here."  Turning  to 
the  attendant,  she  said :  "Bring  me  my  cloak."  The  man 
brought  a  handsome  scarlet  cloak,  which  Dr.  Suydam 
took  and  threw  around  her  shoulders  as  deferentially  as 
if  she  had  been  a  princess. 

As  he  did  this  the  man  with  whom  the  woman  had 
been  sitting  in  the  supper  room  came  and  said :  "I  see, 
Marie,  you  throw  me  over  for  what  you  think  better 
company,"  and  fixing  a  monocle  in  his  right  eye,  he  gave 
the  Doctor  a  stony  English  stare,  and  then  he  bowed. 
"It's  the  American  parson  or  I'm  damned,"  said  he  under 
his  breath.  To  the  Doctor  he  said :  "I  congratulate  you, 
sir.  You  have  the  true  American  enterprise." 

Dr.  Suydam  recognized  his  friend  of  the  club,  who 
had  told  him  of  Marie  Du  Pre,  lifting  his  hat  and  blush- 
ing he  passed  down  the  stairway  and  out  into  the  street. 
The  woman  motioned  to  a  cab,  and  they  were  driven 
rapidly  to  the  neighborhood  of  Russell  Square ;  the  woman, 
took  the  Doctor's  cane  and  motioned  to  the  left  and  the 
cab  stopped  in  front  of  a  plain  but  substantial  house.  Dr. 
Suydam  put  his  fingers  in  the  pocket  of  his  vest  and  tak- 
ing the  first  coin  which  came  to  him  gave  the  cabby  a  half 
sovereign.  "Thank  ye,  my  lord,"  said  cabby,  "thank 
ye ;  I  'opes  as  'ow  yer  lordship  will  have  a  pleasant  night, 
and  I  knows  yer  will."  Without  further  words  the  cabby 
drove  rapidly  away,  fearing  that  he  should  be  asked  for 
change. 

Dr.  Suydam  was  taken  upstairs  and  shown  by  his 
hostess  into  a  small  room,  handsomely  furnished.  Beg- 

335 


The  Greater  Love 

ging  him  to  excuse  her  for  a  moment,  the  lady  retired 
and  left  him  to  make  himself  at  home.  The  little  room 
was  the  perfection  of  exquisite  luxury.  Low  bookcases 
lined  the  walls,  above  them  hung  pictures,  which  even  in 
the  dim  light  were  seen  to  be  the  work  of  masters.  At 
one  end  of  the  room  was  a  couch  covered  with  blue  silk, 
and  chairs  of  the  same  color  were  scattered  about.  The 
air  of  the  room  was  perfumed  with  a  subtle  odor  that 
stole  in  upon  the  senses  with  enervating  power. 

Dr.  Suydam  began  to  be  afraid ;  he  felt  himself  in  the 
clutch  of  some  soft  creature  who  was  strangling  him 
with  her  arms. 

As  he  was  battling  with  this  sensation,  his  hostess  en- 
tered the  room.  She  had  laid  aside  her  evening  dress  and 
was  clad  in  a  house  gown  of  soft  clinging  white.  As  she 
entered  the  room  Dr.  Suydam  rose  and  unconsciously 
bowed  before  her.  Never  had  he  seen  so  tragic  a  figure 
as  this  woman  presented ;  there  was  about  her  an  air  of 
ruin  and  despair  that  appealed  to  every  fiber  of  his 
manhood. 

"I  offer  no  excuse,  sir,"  she  said,  "for  admitting  a 
stranger  to  my  house  at  this  hour  of  the  night.  I  am  a 
woman  for  whom  excuses  have  long  ceased  to  be  a  neces- 
sity." 

"I  assure  you,  madam,  that  I  come  into  your  house 
with  feelings  of  the  most  profound  respect  for  its  mis- 
tress, who,  whatever  may  have  been  her  misfortunes,  I 
am  sure  is  still  a  good  woman." 

"A  good  woman,"  she  said,  laughing  a  low,  sad, 
musical  laugh.  "I  take  it,  sir,  that  you  are  a  stranger 
in  London?" 

"I  am,  madam,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"Permit  me  to  tell  you,  sir,"  said  the  woman,  haught- 

336 


Wicked  London's  Waifs  and  Strays 

ily,  "that  you  are  in  the  house  of  one  of  the  most  notorious 
women  of  pleasure  in  London,  you  are  in  the  house  of 
Marie  Du  Pre.  A  woman  who  admits  to  her  favor  only 
royalty  and  nobility.  If  I  have  brought  you  home,  it  is 
only  because  I  wished  to  escape  the  attentions  of  that 
beast,  who  was  insulting  me  at  table.  I  will  if  you  please 
then  dismiss  you,  and  wish  you  good-night.  I  am  in  no 
mood  to  give  pleasure  to  you  or  to  any  other  man." 

"Madam,"  said  Dr.  Suydam,  "I  am  not  here  to  ask  of 
you  anything  that  would  be  dishonorable  either  to  you  or 
to  me.  I  am  here  to  ask  your  help." 


337 


CHAPTER  II 

A  MIGHTY  RUIN 

MARIE  Du  PRE  glided  to  the  couch  and  sat  down, 
motioning  to  Dr.  Suydam  to  seat  himself  beside  her. 
"Pray,"  she  said,  "who  are  you  and  what  do  you  know 
of  me,  and  why  do  you  ask  me  to  help  you?" 

"Who  I  am,"  said  the  Doctor,  "is  of  no  consequence 
now.  I  know  that  you  are  Marie  Du  Pre,  that  you  are 
acquainted  with  the  Marquis  of  Dipford." 

"The  Marquis  of  Dipford,"  said  the  woman,  in  a 
whisper,  "that  is  it,  that  is  why  you  frightened  me.  I 
seemed  to  see  the  Marquis  of  Dipford  standing  beside 
you.  But,  sir,  the  Marquis  of  Dipford  is  dead." 

"The  Marquis  of  Dipford  dead,"  cried  the  Doctor. 
"Why,  when  did  he  die  ?" 

"A  year  ago,"  whispered  the  woman. 

"Impossible,"  said  Dr.  Suydam.  "I  have  seen  him 
alive  within  the  last  three  months." 

"Oh,  you  mean  Tommy,"  said  the  woman,  "I  never 
think  of  him  as  the  Marquis ;  the  Marquis  is  dead.  If  it 
is  Tommy  you  mean,  I  can  tell  you  about  him.  What  do 
you  wish  to  know?" 

"The  Marquis  of  Dipford  is  to  marry  my  step- 
daughter, an  American  woman  of  wealth  and  position." 

"Tommy  is  going  to  marry  a  rich  American,  is  he?" 

339 


The  Greater  Love 

said  Marie  Du  Pre,  laughing  heartily.  "Good  for 
Tommy,  I  knew  that  he  would  do  something  to  save  the 
family,  even  if  he  is  the  fool.  And  he  will,  if  he  doesn't 
die,"  she  added,  "if  he  doesn't  die.  Have  you  come  to 
me  to  give  Tommy  a  character?" 

"No,"  said  the  Doctor,  "my  daughter  is  not  going  to 
marry  Tommy,  as  you  call  him.  She  is  going  to  marry 
the  Marquis  of  Dipford,  heir  to  the  Dukedom  of  Senlac. 
In  her  opinion  the  rank  of  her  suitor  makes  character 
unnecessary." 

"It  is  well  she  thinks  so,"  said  Marie  Du  Pre,  "for  if 
Tommy  were  not  a  nobleman,  Tommy  would  be  con- 
sidered no  better  than  the  wicked.  But  pray,  sir,  if  you 
do  not  wish  to  inquire  about  the  Marquis  of  Dipford,  may 
I  ask  to  what  I  owe  your  presence  here?" 

"I  have  come  to  ask  you  to  help  me  find  a  young  girl, 
who,  I  fear,  is  lost  here  in  London,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"A  young  girl  lost  in  London.  Why,  sir,  there  are 
thousands  of  such  girls,  how  do  you  expect  to  find  one 
among  so  many?"  said  Marie  Du  Pre. 

"It  is  for  this  reason  that  I  have  come  to  you.  With- 
out some  clue  I  know  my  search  would  be  useless,"  said 
the  Doctor. 

"And  you  expect  me  to  give  you  a  clue?  You  think 
I  know  all  the  lost  women  in  London.  If  so,  you  are 
greatly  mistaken.  There  are  ranks  and  degrees  in  the 
lower  world  just  as  there  are  in  the  world  above  us. 
The  women  of  the  street  are  as  far  below  me  as  I  am 
below  the  Duchess  of  Senlac." 

"Yes,  madam,"  said  the  Doctor.  "But  my  hope  is  in 
the  fact  of  your  association  with  the  house  of  Senlac.  The 
young  woman  that  I  am  looking  for  came  over  with  a 
Mr.  Bullet,  my  step-son,  the  brother  of  the  lady  whom 

340 


A  Mighty  Ruin 

the  Marquis  is  to  marry.  Mr.  Bullet  came  with  the  Mar- 
quis to  London.  If  the  young  woman  was  with  him,  I 
thought  you  might  possibly  have  seen  her  or,  at  least, 
have  heard  of  her." 

"Oh,  is  it  that  woman  ?  Oh,  yes,  I  have  seen  her  and 
her  precious  American  protector.  Of  all  the  cads  I  have 
ever  seen,  he  is  the  worst.  And  the  woman  is  a  silly." 

"Where  is  she  ?"  said  the  Doctor. 

"They  were  living  in  lodgings  in  Craven  Street.  Dip- 
ford  brought  them  here,  and  wanted  to  place  the  woman 
under  my  protection.  But  what  is  she  to  you,  that  you 
should  take  the  trouble  to  come  all  the  way  from  America 
to  London  to  search  for  her?  You  want  to  save  her;  is 
that  it?" 

"That  is  it.  I  am  a  clergyman.  This  woman  is  one 
of  my  flock.  She  has  been  wronged  by  a  member  of  my 
own  household.  She  is  the  sister  of  a  dear  friend.  I 
must  find  her  and  take  her  home  even  if  in  doing  so  I 
lose  my  name  and  place  in  the  world." 

"You  are  willing  to  do  this  for  a  lost  woman?"  said 
Marie  Du  Pre. 

"I  am  willing,"  said  the  Doctor. 

Marie  Du  Pre  looked  steadily  at  Dr.  Suydam  for  a 
moment  and  said :  "I  believe  you,  sir.  And  let  me  tell 
you,  you  have  already  risked  your  good  name.  That 
wretch,  Erdel,  seemed  to  know  you.  If  he  did  it  will  be 
known  in  the  club  before  morning  that  you  have  gone 
with  Marie  Du  Pre.  And  if  you  are  as  you  say,  a  clergy- 
man, you  are  lost." 

"I  feared  as  much  when  I  saw  the  man,"  said  Dr. 
Suydam.  "It  is  of  no  use  to  make  any  explanations.  I 
must  go  on  with  my  search,  no  matter  what  happens." 

"I  will  help  you,"  said  Marie  Du  Pre.    "I  will  go  to 


The  Greater  Love 

the  lodgings  in  Craven  Street,  and  if  the  woman  is  there 
will  let  you  know,  if  not  I  will  find  out,  if  I  can,  where 
she  has  gone  to." 

"Thank  you,  madam,"  said  Dr.  Suydam.  "I  am  sure, 
with  your  help,  I  shall  find  the  poor  girl  that  is  lost." 

"Girl  that  is  lost,"  murmured  Marie  Du  Pre.  "Girl 
that  is  lost.  My  God!  how  many  there  are,  how  many 
there  are !" 

"May  I,  without  offense,  ask  you,  madam,  to  what 
great  misfortune  you  owe  your  sad  place  in  the  world?" 
The  Doctor  said  these  words  so  tenderly  that  the  woman 
was  moved. 

"Oh,  do  not  pity  me,  sir,  do  not  pity  me.  If  you  pity 
me  you  will  break  my  heart.  I  must  believe  that  I  am 
wicked  or  else  I  must  die.  I  owe  my  place  in  the  world 
to  the  fact  that  when  I  was  a  girl  of  eighteen,  I  seduced 
a  peer  of  the  realm  of  England,  a  cabinet  minister,  a 
duke,  who  was  old  enough  to  be  my  father.  Have  I  not 
reason  to  be  proud  of  my  wickedness?" 

"My  dear  madam,"  said  the  Doctor,  "your  story  is 
wildly  improbable.  A  girl  of  eighteen  could  not  beguile 
such  a  man  as  you  describe.  She  must  have  been  the 
victim,  not  the  aggressor." 

"Sir,  you  shall  hear  and  judge  for  yourself.  I  am  the 
granddaughter  of  a  French  nobleman,  who,  in  the  Revo- 
lution, fled  with  his  children  to  England.  He  supported 
himself  by  teaching  French  to  the  children  of  Senlac. 
His  son,  my  father,  married  a  maid-in-waiting  to  the 
Duchess. 

"I  was  taken  in  the  castle  as  a  maid-in-waiting  in  my 
turn.  When  I  was  eighteen  years  old,  her  Grace,  the 
Duchess  sent  me  to  open  the  town  house.  His  Grace 
came  up  to  London  soon  after.  We  were  alone  in  the 

343 


A  Mighty  Ruin 

house,  except  for  the  care-taker.  His  Grace  was  very 
courteous  and  attentive  to  me.  He  insisted  that  we 
should  dine  together.  We  had  rich  food  and  choice 
wines.  His  Grace  was  as  affectionate  as  if  I  had  been  his 
daughter,  or  his  wife,  yes,  his  wife.  He  forgot  and  he 
made  me  forget  that  I  was  not  his  wife.  I  was  young 
and  ignorant ;  he  was  weak  and  so  he  fell  a  victim  to  my 
youth  and  ignorance. 

"When  the  Duchess  came  to  town  the  Duke  advised 
me  to  leave  her  service,  and  provided  me  with  this  house, 
and  here  our  children  were  born." 

"Your  children,"  said  Dr.  Suydam,  in  astonishment, 
"your  children.  Had  you  children?" 

"Yes,  two,  a  boy  and  a  girl,"  said  Marie  Du  Pre. 

"And  are  they  living?"  said  Dr.  Suydam. 

"Yes,  they  are  living,  though  they  had  far  better  be 
dead.  Poor  children ;  their  blood  is  the  noblest  blood  of 
France  and  of  England,  and  yet  it  is  more  shameful  than 
the  blood  of  the  costermonger  of  Covent  Garden." 

"Where  are  they?"  said  the  Doctor. 

"They  are  where  they  will  never  know  their  father  or 
their  mother,"  answered  Marie  Du  Pre,  "they  are  a  shame 
to  their  father  and  their  mother  is  a  shame  to  them." 

"Who  is  their  father?" 

"Have  I  not  told  you?    He  is  the  Duke  of  Senlac." 

"The  Duke  of  Senlac  ?"  exclamed  the  Doctor.  "Then 
they  are  half  brother  and  sister  to  the  Marquis  of  Dip- 
ford?" 

"Half  brother  and  sister  to  the  Marquis  of  Dipford," 
said  the  woman,  laughing  bitterly,  "the  bastards  of  Marie 
Du  Pre,  half  brother  and  sister  to  the  Marquis  of  Dip- 
ford.  Poor  children,  they  have  no  kindred,  no  father,  no 
brother,  no  sister,  only  a  wicked  mother,  only  a  wicked 
mother." 

343 


The  Greater  Love 

"You  must  not  say  so,  you  are  not  wicked,"  said  the 
Doctor,  indignantly. 

"Not  wicked,  sir,  I  tell  you  I  am  wicked.  His  Grace 
became  tired  of  me  and  left  me.  My  father  is  the  clergy- 
man of  the  Parish  of  Senlac,  my  brother  is  the  confiden- 
tial friend  of  the  Duke.  These  have  cast  me  off  because  I 
am  a  wicked  and  designing  woman,  who  seduced  his 
Grace,  wasted  his  fortune,  ruined  and  killed  his  son. 
Yes,"  said  the  woman,  walking  up  and  down  the  room, 
with  all  the  fierceness  and  grace  of  a  caged  leopard.  "I 
am  wicked.  There  was  nothing  left  for  me  but  to  be 
wicked.  I  am  a  vampire.  I  suck  the  blood  of  princes. 
I  number  among  my  victims  the  elder  sons  of  ducal 
houses.  I  am  Marie  Du  Pre,  the  greatest  courtesan  in 
London.  I  trample  men  under  my  feet.  I,  one  ruined 
woman,  have  ruined  a  hundred  men.  I  take  them  when 
they  are  young,  I  sap  their  strength.  I  kill  them  with 
pleasure.  Oh,  Dipford,  Dipford,"  cried  the  woman, 
throwing  up  her  arms  and  falling  headlong  on  the  floor. 

Dr.  Suydam  sat  down  on  the  floor  and  took  her  head 
upon  his  knees  and  watched  beside  her  until  the  par- 
oxysm of  shame  and  terror  passed  away.  Then  he  left 
her  and  went  out  into  the  cold  gray  light  of  a  London 
morning. 


544 


CHAPTER   III 

THE  BLEATING  OF  THE   SHEEP 

LATER  in  the  day,  Dr.  Suydam  called  in  at  the  club  to 
see  if  there  were  any  letters  for  him,  and  there  he  met 
again  the  man  to  whom  he  had  spoken  about  Marie  Du 
Pre  and  whom  he  had  seen  with  her  the  night  before.  He 
knew  him  now  as  Lord  Erdel  of  Erdleford,  in  Stafford- 
shire. He  had  looked  him  up  in  the  peerage. 

His  lordship  looked  at  Dr.  Suydam  through  his  mono- 
cle and  said  with  a  drawl :  "Good  morning,  sir.  I  need 
not  ask  if  you  had  a  pleasant  night." 

"I  beg  your  lordship's  pardon,"  said  the  Doctor;  "but 
I  did  not  seek  for  pleasure ;  I  had  other  business  with  the 
woman." 

"Oh,  of  course,  of  course,"  said  Lord  Erdel ;  "I  under- 
stand. Parsons  never  sin  except  for  the  good  of  the 
people." 

Dr.  Suydam  turned  away,  took  his  letters,  looked  up 
Marie  Du  Pre's  residence  in  the  Directory  and  left  the 
club,  knowing  that  he  left  his  good  name  to  the  mercy 
of  a  scandal-monger. 

In  the  afternoon  he  called  upon  Marie  Du  Pre,  who 
told  him  that  the  American  woman  had  been  dismissed 
from  the  lodgings  in  Craven  Street.  No  one  knew  where 
she  had  gone  to.  She  was  probably  drifting  somewhere 

345 


The  Greater  Love 

about  the  streets  of  London.  "Go,"  said  Marie  Du  Pre, 
"to  Piccadilly  and  walk  the  street.  Every  woman  on  the 
town  goes  into  Piccadilly  some  time  during  the  night." 

At  nine  o'clock  Dr.  Suydam  took  a  cab  and  was  driven 
to  Piccadilly  Circus.  Leaving  the  cab,  he  walked  slowly 
down  the  street.  He  found  himself  in  the  great  market 
where  women  sell  themselves  to  every  passer-by  for  bread. 
His  secluded  and  scholarly  life  had  made  him  unfamiliar 
with  such  scenes  as  those  which  now  shocked  him  as  he 
saw  the  shameless  traffic  of  the  London  streets. 

He  knew,  of  course,  that  there  was  such  evil  in  the 
world.  He  had  seen  pestilence  gliding  along  Broadway 
and  seeking  the  darkness  of  the  side  street  in  his  own 
city  of  New  York.  There  vice  had,  at  least,  the  virtue 
of  semi-concealment. 

But  here  in  the  capital  of  the  Protestant  Christian 
world  the  traffic  in  human  flesh  was  as  open  as  the  traffic 
in  the  flesh  of  calves  in  the  market.  There  was  no  pre- 
tense at  concealment.  These  women  were  no  more 
ashamed  of  their  trade  than  the  butcher  was  of  his.  Nor 
did  the  passer-by  seem  to  see  anything  out  of  the  way  in 
this  degradation  of  womanhood.  English  gentlemen 
elbowed  their  way  through  the  throng  of  women  with 
perfect  unconcern. 

Dr.  Suydam  was  aghast  at  the  sight.  He  saw  here 
women  tall  and  fair,  women  who  to  the  eye  were  worthy 
of  love  and  reverence,  offering  themselves  without  shame 
to  the  stranger.  As  he  was  swept  on  by  the  crowd,  Dr. 
Suydam  felt  rising  within  him  every  base  desire  and  every 
unholy  thought.  His  nature,  heretofore  so  calm  and  pure, 
was  stirred  to  its  dregs.  He  felt  himself  being  sucked 
down  by  the  maelstrom  of  vice  which  surrounded  him. 
From  this  place  good  was  banished  and  evil  was  taken  for 

346 


The  Bleating  of  the  Sheep 

granted.  A  man's  presence  here  was  an  evidence  of  his 
evil  nature,  and  here  that  evil  in  its  lowest  form  was  ap- 
pealed to  more  powerfully  than  anywhere  else  in  the 
world. 

Dr.  Suydam  hurried  along,  not  daring  to  look  into  the 
faces  of  the  women,  his  throat  dry,  his  lips  parched,  his 
soul  crying  desperately  for  salvation. 

As  he  came  back  to  the  Circus  about  midnight,  he 
saw  a  sight  that  moved  him  to  indignation  and  turned  his 
attention  from  himself,  and  he  saved  himself  by  trying  to 
save  another.  He  saw  two  men,  evidently  gentlemen,  in 
evening  dress,  maltreating  a  woman.  The  creature  was 
hardly  a  woman.  She  was  but  a  girl,  of  eighteen  or  nine- 
teen. One  of  these  men  was  pressing  the  frightened 
wretch  against  the  wall  of  the  house,  while  the  other 
cried :  "Hold  her,  Erdel,  hold  her  till  I  call  an  officer." 

The  crowd  of  women  paused  for  a  moment  and 
looked  curiously  at  their  sister  sinner  thus  pressed  cruelly 
against  the  wall.  But  no  one  seemed  to  think  it  strange. 
The  girl  herself  took  it  as  a  matter  of  course.  Her  face 
became  stolid  and  cunning,  like  the  face  of  an  animal 
seeking  to  escape  its  captors. 

Dr.  Suydam  watched  this  scene  with  growing  anger. 
"Do  you  not  see,"  he  said  to  the  man,  "that  you  are  hurt- 
ing the  woman?" 

"What  business  is  that  of  yours  ?"  said  the  man  with 
a  sneer.  And  Dr.  Suydam  recognized  again  his  acquaint- 
ance of  the  club,  Lord  Erdel  of  Erdelford. 

"It  is  every  man's  business  to  protect  a  woman  in  dis- 
tress," said  he,  sternly. 

"Yes,  a  woman,"  said  the  man,  "but  not  a  dirty " 

Before  the  words  were  out  of  his  mouth  the  man  was 
seized  by  the  collar  and  hurled  out  into  the  street.  He 


The  Greater  Love 

staggered  along  for  a  moment  and  then  fell  full  length. 
Gathering  himself  together  and  rising  up,  he  rushed  back 
and  struck  his  assailant  across  the  face  with  his  cane. 

Dr.  Suydam  did  not  resent  the  blow.  He  said :  "Your 
lordship  may  strike  me  if  you  please.  I  deserve  it  at 
your  hands,  but  you  must  not  hurt  the  woman." 

At  the  sound  of  the  Doctor's  voice  the  Englishman 
dropped  his  cane  and  said :  "By  Jove,  it  is  the  American. 
Well,"  he  said,  "you  are  having  a  fling.  Marie  Du  Pre 
last  night,  a  trull  from  the  street  to-night,  where  will  you 
be  to-morrow  night  ?" 

"I  do  not  know,"  said  Dr.  Suydam. 

"Come,"  said  his  lordship,  to  his  companion,  "come 
along,  the  slut  picked  my  pocket,  but  let  her  have  the 
purse.  She  will  revenge  me  on  the  American  that  stole 
Marie  Du  Pre  from  me  last  night."  The  man  who  was 
seeking  an  officer  came  back  and  the  two  went  down  the 
street.  The  imprisoned  woman  shook  herself,  arranged 
her  clothing  and  began  to  ply  her  trade  as  if  nothing  had 
happened. 

Dr.  Suydam  put  his  hand  to  his  smarting  face  and 
found  it  covered  with  blood.  He  turned  from  Piccadilly 
into  the  archway  that  runs  to  the  street  beyond.  As  he 
did  so,  he  found  himself  supported  and  almost  carried  by 
the  strong  arms  of  a  woman  and  he  heard  a  rich  contralto 
voice  saying :  "Come,  sir,  come  with  me." 

Like  a  little  child  he  suffered  himself  to  be  taken,  he 
knew  not  where.  It  was  up  a  dark  stairway  and  into  a 
dark  room.  He  was  laid  upon  a  bed  and  soon  by  the 
light  of  a  candle  which  his  guide  had  lighted  he  saw  that 
his  protector  was  a  woman,  large  and  strong,  who  lifted 
him  as  if  he  had  been  a  baby.  "Lie  still,  sir,  lie  still," 
she  said,  as  she  bathed  his  face  with  cold  water.  "You 

348 


The  Bleating  of  the  Sheep 

were  very  foolish  to  try  to  protect  a  woman  of  the  street. 
It  is  a  wonder  you  were  not  killed." 

Dr.  Suydam  did  not  answer  a  word.  He  lay  still  and 
looked  through  the  dim  light  at  this  sad,  massive  face  that 
was  bent  over  his.  Ij:  seemed  to  him  the  face  of  a  Greek 
goddess,  who  had  come  back  to  earth  to  find  her  altar 
broken  down,  her  shrine  desecrated,  and  herself  an  out- 
cast. As  she  bathed  his  bruised  face  she  said :  "You  did 
wrong,  you  did  very  wrong,  you  must  be  a  stranger  in 
London  not  to  know  that  we  Englishwomen  are  mire 
under  the  feet  of  Englishmen.  It  was  a  noble  but  a  fool- 
ish thing  to  throw  that  wicked  lord  into  the  street,"  and 
stooping  down  this  goddess  kissed  him  on  the  brow. 

He  was  too  faint  and  dazed  to  resist.  And  the  woman 
took  him  in  her  arms,  put  his  head  on  her  breast  and  be- 
gan, in  her  wonderful  contralto  voice  to  sing  him  to  sleep. 
And  the  song  that  she  sang  was,  "Jesus,  Saviour  of  My 
Soul." 

The  spell  of  the  music  calmed  the  throbbing  brain  of 
the  wounded  man  and  he  fell  in  a  sleep.  After  a  long 
time  he  wakened  to  find  himself  still  encircled  with  strong 
arms  and  his  head  rising  and  falling  to  the  breathing  of 
a  mighty  bosom.  As  he  strove  to  free  himself  a  voice 
said  to  him :  "Lie  still,  my  child,  lie  still  until  the  morn- 
ing ;  I  will  not  hurt  you." 

"Let  me  go,  let  me  go,"  cried  the  amazed  man,  "some 
one  is  calling  me."  At  this  the  woman  rose  up  and  held 
the  candle  for  him  at  the  head  of  the  stairway,  while  he 
made  his  way  down  into  the  street.  As  he  passed  out  of 
the  door  he  heard  the  voice  of  the  woman  singing,  "Jesus, 
Saviour  of  My  Soul." 

Dr.  Suydam  went  away  with  that  song  in  his  ears. 
His  soul  was  calm.  There  was  no  compunction  in  his  heart 

349 


The  Greater  Love 

because  he  had  been  in  strange  arms  and  had  rested  on  a 
strange  bosom.  He  had  not  sinned,  he  had  been  protected 
by  a  mighty  love. 

As  he  walked  down  the  silent  streets,  through  the  gray 
mist  of  the  morning  he  felt  himself  in  a  new  world  of 
purity  and  growing  light.  He  did  not  take  heed  to  his 
steps;  he  walked  on  and  on  as  if  led  by  an  unseen  hand. 
After  wandering  about  for  what  seemed  to  him  an  age, 
but  which  was  really  less  than  an  hour,  he  was  arrested  in 
his  walk  by  the  sound  of  a  woman's  voice  crying  bitterly ; 
without  waiting  for  an  instant  he  went  straight  toward 
that  voice  as  fast  as  his  feet  could  carry  him. 

Through  the  thinning  fog  he  saw  the  form  of  a 
woman  crouching  on  the  ground ;  he,  stooping  down,  took 
her  in  his  arms  and  lifted  her  up  and  said :  "Be  still,  my 
dear,  be  still ;  do  not  cry,  I  have  come  to  take  care  of  you." 
Without  answering  a  word  the  woman  threw  her  arms 
about  his  neck  and  pressed  herself  against  him,  shivering 
with  cold  and  with  fright.  And  so  they  stood,  while  the 
mist  drifted  away  to  the  sea,  and  the  sun  arose,  and  the 
dome  of  St.  Paul's  floated  in  the  morning  sky. 

Then  Dr.  Suydam  saw  that  he  was  on  the  Victoria 
embankment.  He  called  a  passing  cab,  lifted  the  woman 
into  it  and  gave  the  house  number  of  Marie  Du  Pre. 

With  difficulty  he  roused  her  from  her  morning  sleep 
and  persuaded  her  to  let  him  in. 

Wrhen  she  did  so  and  saw  the  woman,  she  said :  "We 
must  make  haste  and  call  the  physician  and  the  midwife, 
else  the  child  will  be  born  without  help." 

"The  child !"  said  the  Doctor. 

"Yes,  the  child,"  said  Marie  Du  Pre.  "The  woman  is 
near  her  time." 

Dr.  Suydam  made  haste,  and  calling  a  passing  cab 

350 


The  Bleating  of  the  Sheep 

was  driven  to  the  nearest  physician  whom  he  begged  to 
go  at  once  to  help  the  poor  woman  in  her  distress.  From 
the  physician  he  learned  the  address  of  the  nearest  mid- 
wife and  went  for  her  also.  He  waited  while  she  made 
herself  ready,  and  took  the  midwife  with  him  in  the  cab. 

When  he  reached  the  house,  Marie  Du  Pre  said  to 
him :  "The  child  is  born,  and  you  have  found  the  woman 
that  was  lost." 

"What!"  cried  Dr.  Suydam.    "What  do  you  mean?" 

"Come  and  see,"  said  Marie  Du  Pre. 

Dr.  Suydam  went  in  and  on  a  pillow  he  saw  a  face 
pale  with  exhaustion  and  yet  bright  with  the  brightness 
of  motherhood,  and  the  face  was  the  face  of  Abigail  Bain. 


CHAPTER  IVi 

THE  FALL  OF  LUCIFER 

SHORTLY  after  these  events  occurred  in  London,  Mrs. 
Suydam  was  seated  in  the  morning  room  of  her  house 
reading  a  paper.  As  she  was  glancing  over  the  page  her 
eye  was  arrested  by  head  lines  which  announced,  "The 
Naughty  Pranks  of  a  Parson.  The  Preacher  Has  His 
Fling." 

Reading  down  the  column  Mrs.  Suydam  learned  that 
a  certain  celebrated  American  preacher,  who  had  recently 
made  himself  famous  in  New  York  by  the  denunciation 
of  vice,  was  making  himself  infamous  in  London,  by 
practicing  the  vice  which  he  denounced.  This  parson, 
whose  name  began  with  an  S  and  ended  with  a  dam,  was 
living  up  to  the  full  privilege  of  his  name  in  wicked  Lon- 
don. One  night  he  was  seen  in  one  of  the  most  notorious 
resorts  in  Regent  Street  and  went  home  with  its  most 
notorious  woman. 

"The  next  night  this  same  saint,  who  pretends  that 
ginger  is  not  hot  in  his  mouth,  fought  an  English  lord 
for  the  possession  of  a  trull,  and  the  scene  of  this  combat 
of  males  for  the  female,  was  Piccadilly  Circus,  at  mid- 
night. 

"The  American  residents  in  London  are  scandalized  at 
this  man's  wickedness,  and  are  demanding  that  he  be 

353 


The  Greater  Love 

arrested  and  sent  home.  The  English  laugh  and  say  that 
the  man  is  guilty  of  nothing  but  bad  form,  and  bad  form, 
while  it  is  the  deadliest  of  social,  is  not  a  civil  crime. 

"The  correspondent  of  the  Tattler  was  with  Lord 
Erdel  when  the  parson  fought  with  him  for  the  girl,  and 
recognized  in  this  defender  of  the  London  drab,  the  cele- 
brated American  preacher." 

As  Mrs.  Suydam  read  this  account  of  her  husband's 
downfall  she  blushed  scarlet  and  said :  "Well,  I  am  done 
with  that  man  forever.  Too  nice  to  live  with  his  own 
wife,  he  finds  his  pleasure  with  the  lowest  of  women.  I 
wonder  how  long  that  has  been  going  on.  His  interest  in 
that  woman  in  Mulberry  Street  was  not  purely  spiritual. 
The  hypocrite !" 

While  Mrs.  Suydam  was  raging  over  this  exposure 
of  her  husband's  wickedness  Katherine  Bullet  entered  the 
room.  "Why,  mother,  what  is  the  trouble  this  morning  ? 
You  look  angry  enough  to  bite  a  ten-penny  nail." 

"Trouble,  angry,  I  should  think  so.  The  wretched 
man!  We  are  disgraced  forever!"  said  Mrs.  Suydam, 
throwing  the  paper  on  the  floor. 

"Now,  mother,  dear,"  said  Katherine,  "don't  be  so 
tragical.  What  has  Bobby  been  up  to  now  ?" 

"Bobby!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Suydam.  "Bobby  has  not 
been  up  to  anything.  Bobby  knows  enough  to  behave  like 
a  gentleman  when  he  is  away  from  home." 

"Indeed,"  said  Katherine,  lifting  her  eyebrows.  "I 
wish  he  would  show  a  little  of  the  same  behavior  when  he 
is  at  home ;  but  if  it  is  not  Bobby,  who  is  it  ?" 

"It  is  that  wretched  man,"  said  Mrs.  Suydam. 

"What  wretched  man,  mother  mine?"  said  Katherine. 

"Read  and  see,"  said  Mrs.  Suydam,  handing  Kather- 
ine the  paper. 

354 


The  Fall  of  Lucifer 

Katherine  took  the  paper,  read  the  account,  and  care- 
lessly threw  it  on  the  floor. 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Suydam. 

"Well,  what?"  said  Katherine. 

"How  you  provoke  me!  You  do  not  care  if  your 
mother  is  disgraced  in  the  eyes  of  all  London  and  New 
York." 

"My  mother  is  not  disgraced,"  said  Katherine,  skill- 
fully breaking  an  egg,  "unless  she  disgraces  herself  by 
believing  such  lies  as  that." 

"But  it  is  a  dispatch  from  London.  It  says  that  the 
correspondent  of  the  Tattler  saw  the  street  fight,"  said 
Mrs.  Suydam. 

"I  have  no  doubt  he  did  see  it,"  said  Katherine,  eating 
her  egg  with  great  care.  "Daddy  was  doubtless  standing 
up  for  some  poor  street  girl  against  some  London  bully. 
And  he  did  right,  he  did  right.  I  have  seen  sights  in 
London  that  have  made  my  fingers  itch  to  use  my  horse- 
whip on  the  backs  of  those  English  brutes.  They  treat 
those  poor  women  worse  than  they  treat  a  mangy  cur." 

"Katherine,  Katherine,"  said  Mrs.  Suydam.  "Your 
vulgarity  is  beyond  endurance.  What  do  you  know  about 
these  poor  women,  as  you  call  them  ?" 

"Know  about  them!"  exclaimed  Katherine,  "know 
about  them !  Do  you  think  I  have  been  driving  about  the 
streets  of  New  York,  London,  Paris,  and  Vienna,  at  all 
hours  of  the  night  and  don't  know  about  them  ?  Haven't  I 
seen  their  draggled  silks  and  painted  faces  until  I  am 
sick  ?  I  never  see  one  of  them  but  I  say,  'There,  but  for 
her  money,  goes  Katherine  Bullet.'  " 

"Indeed,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Suydam,  scornfully, 
"your  championship  of  vice  is  very  becoming  to  a  woman 
in  your  position." 

355 


The  Greater  Love 

"It  is  becoming,"  said  Katherine,  "for  I  am  as  vicious 
as  they.  They  sell  themselves  for  money.  I  sell  myself 
for  a  title.  The  only  difference  is  that  the  Church  blesses 
my  sale  and  curses  theirs." 

"Katherine,"  said  Mrs.  Suydam,  "please  do  not  speak 
against  the  Church." 

"The  Church,  the  Church,"  said  Katherine.  "The 
Church  makes  a  great  effort  to  strain  out  a  gnat  while  it 
swallows  a  camel.  It  has  spent  millions  to  abolish  the 
Juggernaut  and  abate  the  Suttee,  while  it  rolls  its  car  of 
greed  and  hate  over  millions  of  the  poor,  and  burns  its 
women  in  the  fires  of  the  social  evil." 

"I  see,  Katherine,"  said  Mrs.  Suydam,  "that  you  have 
been  taking  lessons  from  Dr.  Suydam;  but  take  care, 
see  where  his  doctrines  have  led  him." 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  his  doctrines  nor  where 
they  have  led  him ;  but  this  I  do  know.  I  have  lived  with 
my  father,  the  only  father  I  have  ever  known,  ever  since  I 
was  a  child.  He  is  the  only  man  for  whom  I  have  been 
able  to  keep  any  respect,  and  it  will  take  more  than  the 
lies  of  the  Tattler  to  make  me  believe  that  my  Daddy  is 
not  infinitely  better  than  the  men  and  women  who  slander 
him." 

"Have  a  care,  Katherine,"  cried  Mrs.  Suydam,  "have 
a  care.  Go  a  little  further  and  you  will  try  my  patience 
beyond  endurance.  You  do  not  seem  to  think  that  this 
scandal  may  ruin  your  own  future.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if 
Dipford  and  the  Duke  were  to  break  the  engagement." 

"Have  no  fear  on  that  score,"  said  Katherine.  "Dip- 
ford  is  not  going  to  marry  my  reputation  nor  the  repu- 
tation of  my  kindred  iar  or  near,  by  blood  or  by  marriage. 
Dipford  is  going  to  marry  my  millions,  and  as  long  as 
they  are  untarnished  Dipford  will  be  true." 

356 


The  Fall  of  Lucifer 

"You  may  talk  as  you  please,  Katherine,"  said  Mrs. 
Suydam,  "but  that  man  shall  never  cross  my  threshold 
again.  I  shall  begin  suit  at  once  for  divorce." 

"Do,  mother,"  said  Katherine,  "and  when  you  get  it 
marry  the  Duke  of  Senlac.  I  would  love  to  have  you  for 
a  mother-in-law,"  and  making  a  courtesy  Katherine  left 
the  room.  And  as  she  went  up  the  stairs  she  said : 
"Daddy  is  a  fool,  Daddy  is  a  fool.  He  is  fighting  against 
all  the  social  gods.  He  has  fallen  from  the  grace  of  the 
social  world." 

Katherine  shut  herself  up  in  her  room,  and,  what  was 
unusual  with  her,  gave  herself  up  to  a  fit  of  bitter 
weeping. 


357 


CHAPTER  V 

A  NIGHT  WATCH 

ALL  unconscious  of  the  storm  that  was  brewing  in  his 
own  household,  Dr.  Suydam  kept  watch  by  the  bedside  of 
Abigail  Bain.  For  days  her  life  was  in  the  balance  with 
death,  and  the  weight  of  a  straw  would  turn  the  scale. 
The  physician  said  only  the  most  careful  nursing  could 
save  her. 

And  never  did  a  patient  have  a  more  careful  nurse 
than  Abigail  Bain  had  in  Dr.  Suydam.  He  watched  her 
fever  and  gave  her  medicine  and  her  nourishment.  Marie 
Du  Pre  looked  at  this  man  waiting  upon  this  fallen  girl 
with  all  the  deftness  of  a  physician  and  the  tenderness  of 
a  woman,  and  there  began  to  grow  in  her  soul  a  feeling 
of  awe  for  him  that  was  akin  to  worship. 

She  and  he  watched  all  night  and  listened  to  the 
wandering  talk  of  the  sick  woman.  She  cried :  "Don't 
blame  me,  Keturah,  it  was  so  dark  and  dirty  down  there 
in  Mulberry  Street,  and  I  wanted  to  be  clean,  I  wanted 
to  be  clean.  Don't  leave  me  alone,  Robert,  don't  leave  me 
alone.  I'm  afraid,  I'm  afraid.  Let  me  in,  Keturah,  let 
me  in.  It's  cold  here  in  the  street,  and  I'm  afraid,  I'm 
afraid.  Let  me  in,  I  don't  care  if  it's  dark,  if  you'll  only 
let  me  in.  Take  me  in  your  bed,  Keturah  dear,  I'm  afraid, 
I'm  afraid." 

359 


The  Greater  Love 

"Poor  child,"  said  Marie  Du  Pre.  "She  is  in  the  first 
stages  of  suffering  that  comes  to  every  lost  woman.  At 
first  we  are  afraid.  The  first  night,  after  the  Duke  left 
me,  I  crept  away  to  the  room  of  the  care-taker  and  asked 
to  lie  in  her  bed.  I  was  so  afraid.  But  we  soon  get  over 
that  and  give  ourselves  to  sin  without  a  tremor.  We  are 
afraid  of  nothing,  not  even  of  murder." 

The  plaintive  voice  from  the  sick  bed  began  to  murmur 
again.  "Please,  Robert,  please,  don't  go  away  like  that. 
Don't  leave  me  here  all  alone.  I'll  be  good,  here  I  am, 
take  me,  only  don't  hurt  me,  don't  hurt  me." 

"The  brute!"  said  Marie  Du  Pre,  "the  brute!  Little 
they  care  for  our  pain,  so  they  have  their  pleasure.  Do  you 
wonder  that  I  hate  them  and  kill  them  as  fast  as  I  can?" 

"Kill  them !"  said  Dr.  Suydam.  "What  do  you  mean? 
You  are  not  a  murderess?" 

"Yes,  I  am  a  murderess.  I  kill,  I  kill,  I  kill.  And,  oh, 
my  God !  I  killed  my  darling  Dipford." 

Dr.  Suydam  saw  in  the  dim  light  that  look  of  fear  in 
the  face  of  Marie  Du  Pre  which  he  had  seen  at  the  first, 
with  eyes  dilated  with  horror  she  was  gazing  into  space. 

"What  is  it ?"  said  the  Doctor.  "What  is  it?  What 
do  you  see?" 

"I  see  Dipford,"  and  covering  her  eyes  with  her  hands 
she  knelt  down  and  laid  her  head  upon  the  knees  of  Dr. 
Suydam.  "May  I  tell  you  all  my  wickedness  ?"  said  she. 

"Yes,  my  daughter,  tell  me  all,"  and  the  Doctor  laid 
his  hand  upon  her  head. 

"When  the  Duke  went  away  and  left  me  with  nothing 
but  my  wickedness  to  live  for,  when  I  knew  that  my  chil- 
dren were  bastards,  without  a  name  or  heritage,  I  went 
mad  with  lust  and  hate,  and  I  determined  that  if  my  son 
could  not  bear  the  name  of  FitzOsborn,  then  no  Fitz- 

360 


A  Night  Watch 

Osborn  should  ever  inherit  the  title  of  Senlac.  The 
eldest  son  of  the  Duke,  the  Marquis  of  Dipford,  was  a 
lovely  lad,  yellow  hair  and  blue  eyes,  and  cheeks  like 
cream.  I  used  to  watch  him  with  all  my  eyes  whenever 
I  saw  him  in  the  Castle  or  the  Park,  and  he  had  eyes  only 
for  me.  We  were  like  brother  and  sister.  It  was  Dickie 
this  and  Marie  that,  all  the  day  long.  The  Duchess  was 
jealous  of  me.  We  grew  up  together  until  I  was  eighteen 
and  Dickie  was  sixteen.  Then  the  Duke  took  me  and 
made  me  the  mother  of  his  bastard  children.  Then  he 
left  me  and  them  to  struggle  and  to  die.  And  I  hated  the 
Duke  and  all  his  house. 

"One  day  after  the  Duke  left  me  I  met  Dickie  on  the 
street.  I  was  twenty  and  he  was  eighteen.  Dickie  was 
glad  to  see  me.  He  did  not  know  what  had  become  of 
me.  And  I  was  glad  to  see  him.  I  loved  him,  and  yet 
I  hated  him.  I  brought  him  to  these  rooms  and  I  gratified 
both  my  love  and  my  hatred.  I  made  Dickie  know  what 
pleasure  is.  Not  content  with  corrupting  him,  I  ruined 
him.  I  plunged  him  into  all  the  dissipation  of  London, 
trampling  my  love  under  foot.  I  gave  him  over  to  the 
vilest  women.  I  saw  without  pity  his  beauty  fade  and  his 
strength  decay. 

"My  heart  cried  out  for  Dickie,  but  I  kept  trampling 
on  my  heart,  and  said,  'It  is  not  Dickie ;  it  is  the  Marquis 
of  Dipford,  who  shall  never  be  Duke  of  Senlac,'  and  so  I 
saw  him  shrivel  in  the  fires  of  sin  until  they  burned  him  to 
ashes. 

"It  broke  the  Duchess's  heart,  but  what  did  I  care  for 
the  Duchess  ?  If  the  Duke  had  left  me  any  heart  to  break, 
my  heart  would  have  broken  for  Dickie.  Oh,  Dickie, 
Dickie,  come  back,  come  back,  and  say  that  you  forgive 
me !"  With  this  bitter  cry  of  a  lost  soul,  Marie  Du  Pre 

361 


The  Greater  Love 

slid  off  the  knees  of  Doctor  Suydam  and  writhed  upon 
the  floor. 

Dr.  Suydam  knelt  down  and  took  her  in  his  arms  and 
kissed  her  on  the  cheek,  and  said :  "There,  there,  God  is 
good,  God  will  forgive  you." 

"Do  you  kiss  me  ?"  said  Marie  Du  Pre. 

"Yes,  I  kiss  you,  because  I  love  you  and  am  sorry  for 
you,"  and  the  Doctor  held  her  head  close  to  his  breast. 

"You  love  me  and  are  sorry  for  me,  you  don't  want 
me  for  your  pleasure  then."  And  Marie  looked  at  him 
with  wide-open  eyes. 

"No,  Marie,  not  for  my  pleasure,  but  for  my  joy.  I 
want  to  lift  you  out  of  this  world  of  sin  and  sorrow  into 
a  world  of  holiness  and  happiness." 

Just  then  a  faint  cry  was  heard  in  the  next  room,  and 
Marie  Du  Pre  rose  up  and  said :  "There,  the  baby  is 
awake,  I  must  go  and  look  after  her."  And  Dr.  Suydam 
heard  her  walking  up  and  down  in  the  next  room  with  the 
baby  in  her  arms,  crooning  over  her  as  only  a  mother  can 
croon  over  her  children. 

And  Dr.  Suydam  knew  that  Marie  Du  Pre  had  found 
a  Saviour. 

And  he  smiled  as  he  watched  Abigail  Bain  sleeping, 
as  quietly  as  a  baby,  herself. 

The  low  passionate  confession  of  Marie  Du  Pre  had 
soothed  her  as  a  cradle-song  soothes  a  little  child,  and  she 
had  gone  off  into  a  dreamless  sleep. 


362 


CHAPTER  VI 

A  SILLY  SHEEP 

REST,  quiet,  and  careful  nursing  restored  Abigail  Bain 
to  life  and  to  reason.  One  morning  after  a  peaceful 
slumber  she  opened  her  eyes  and  saw  Dr.  Suydam  stand- 
ing by  her  bedside.  She  lay  quite  still  looking  at  him  for 
a  long  time,  and  then  she  said  in  a  whisper:  "Where 
am  I  ?" 

"You  are  with  friends,  my  child,"  said  Dr.  Suydam. 

"Who  are  you?"  said  the  girl  still  looking  at  him  in- 
tently, and  speaking  in  a  whisper. 

"I  am  Mr.  Suydam,  Dr.  Suydam,  you  know,  of  Saint 
Nicholas  Church,  New  York.  I  come  to  you  from  Ketu- 
rah.  She  wants  you  to  come  home  with  me,"  and  the 
Doctor  smoothed  her  hair. 

"But  where  am  I?"  cried  the  girl,  now  wide  awake, 
"where  am  I  ?  I  feel  so  strange.  What  has  happened  to 
me?"  • 

"You  are  in  London,"  said  the  Doctor,  "in  the  house 
of  a  friend.  And  your  baby  has  been  born." 

"My  baby,"  said  the  girl,  "my  baby!  Did  you  say, 
my  baby?" 

"Yes,  your  baby,  my  dear,  and  a  beautiful  baby  she  is." 

"Where  is  she?"  cried  the  girl,  sitting  up,  "where  is 
she,  can't  I  see  her?" 

363 


The  Greater  Love 

"Yes,"  said  Dr.  Suydam,  and  he  went  to  the  door,  call- 
ing to  some  one  in  the  next  room. 

In  a  moment  a  tall  woman  entered  carrying  a  little 
bundle  in  her  arms.  She  laid  the  child  in  the  bosom  of 
her  mother,  who  gave  it  her  swollen  breast,  and  then 
lay  back  on  the  pillow  with  a  look  of  perfect  happiness. 

Dr.  Suydam  and  Marie  Du  Pre  went  out  of  the  room 
leaving  the  mother  and  child  to  themselves. 

Returning  an  hour  or  two  afterward  Dr.  Suydam 
found  the  baby  asleep  and  the  mother  weeping  silently, 
so  as  not  to  waken  her.  Dr.  Suydam  sat  down,  and  took 
her  hand  in  his  and  smoothed  it  to  quiet  her.  "There, 
there,  my  dear."  he  said,  "don't  cry.  You  are  with  friends. 
'You  and  your  child  will  be  cared  for." 

"But,  sir,"  she  said,  "it  is  wrong  for  me  to  have  a 
baby.  Keturah  will  never  let  me  come  home  when  she 
knows  I  have  a  baby." 

"Oh,  yes,  she  will,"  answered  the  Doctor.  "She  will 
forgive  you  and  love  the  baby.  She  sent  me  over  here 
to  London  to  look  for  you,  until  I  found  you,  and  then  to 
take  you  home  to  her.  As  soon  as  you  are  strong  enough 
we  are  going  home." 

"Oh,  sir,"  said  the  girl,  weeping,  "I  can't  go  home.  I 
am  a  bad  woman.  I  deceived  Keturah.  I  told  her  lies." 

"Never  mind  that  now,  my  child,  that  is  over  and 
gone.  You  will  not  tell  any  more  lies,  I  am  sure.  We 
will  take  good  care  of  you  and  you  will  not  need  to  deceive 
any  more."  And  the  Doctor  placed  his  hand  on  the  girl's 
head  as  if  he  were  absolving  her  from  all  her  sins. 

"But  my  baby,"  said  the  poor  girl,  "my  baby  will  be 
ashamed  of  me.  There  will  be  no  one  whom  she  can  call 
papa."  And  Abigail  began  to  cry  again. 

"Yes,  my  dear,"  said  the  Doctor,  "that  is  very  sad,  but 

364 


A  Silly  Sheep 

we  will  try  to  make  it  up  to  baby  in  some  way.  If  we 
find  her  father,  we  will  make  him  marry  you,  if  we  can.  If 
not  we  will  provide  for  you  and  the  baby  so  that  you  shall 
never  be  in  want." 

"Oh,  sir,"  said  the  girl,  "I  did  not  mean  to  be  bad.  I 
only  wanted  to  have  a  good  time.  It  was  so  dark  and 
dirty  down  in  Mulberry  Street,  and  the  people  were  such 
horrible  people.  Keturah  sent  me  to  school  and  then  to 
the  Normal  College,  and  I  met  nice  girls — girls  who  had 
all  the  money  they  wanted,  and  dressed  so  beautifully,  I 
wanted  to  be  like  them." 

"Yes,  my  child,"  said  the  Doctor,  "that  was  a  natural 
wish.  You  could  not  help  it.  Your  home  in  Mul- 
berry Street  was  no  place  for  you.  Keturah  knew  that, 
and  meant  you  to  leave  it  as  soon  as  you  had  your  appoint- 
ment in  the  public  school." 

"Oh,  the  school,  the  school,"  said  the  girl.  "I  hated 
the  thought  of  the  school.  I  couldn't  bear  to  be  shut  up 
all  day,  and  I  hated  little  children.  I  always  thought  I 
would  marry  a  rich  husband  and  have  everything  I 
wanted." 

"Poor  child,"  said  the  Doctor,  "I  do  not  wonder  that 
you  went  astray." 

"Then,"  said  the  girl,  continuing  her  own  history — 
"then  Robert  came.  I  met  him  one  Sunday  at  Saint  Nich- 
olas Church.  He  gave  me  a  seat.  The  next  Sunday  I 
went  to  church  and  met  him  again.  He  asked  me  to  meet 
him  at  the  fountain  in  Union  Square.  I  knew  it  was 
wrong,  but  I  did  it.  He  took  me  to  drive  in  the  Park,  and 
gave  me  a  dinner.  After  that  I  used  to  meet  him  every 
day  or  two.  He  took  me  to  drive  and  to  sail  down  the 
bay.  He  was  very  kind  and  said  that  he  loved  me.  I 
loved  him,  and  I  thought  my  dream  was  coming  true. 

365 


The  Greater  Love 

T  was  going  to  marry  a  rich  husband  and  have  all  that  I 
wanted." 

"Poor  child,"  said  the  doctor;  "there  is  nothing  in 
this  world  so  deceiving  as  our  dreams.  But  you  need 
not  tell  me  all  this.  Let  it  go.  Telling  can  do  no  good." 

"Oh,  I  must  tell  it !"  said  the  girl.  "It  was  horrible. 
I  must  tell  it.  We  went  down  to  the  seaside  one  after- 
noon. In  the  evening  we  went  out  on  the  sands,  and 
we  stayed  so  late  that  the  last  train  had  gone  to  the  city 
before  we  got  back  to  the  hotel.  I  was  afraid.  Robert 
was  very  nice.  He  told  me  not  to  be  afraid.  He  took  a 
room  for  me,  and  after  supper  I  went  to  bed.  I  lay 
awake  a  long  time,  because  I  was  afraid.  Then  I  went 
to  sleep.  All  of  a  sudden  I  felt  somebody  touch  me.  I 
cried  out ;  but  Robert  put  his  hand  over  my  mouth  and 
told  me  to  be  still.  And  I  was  still  because  I  was  afraid. 
The  next  morning  we  went  back  to  the  city,  and  I  cried 
all  the  way.  Robert  told  me  not  to  cry.  He  would  take 
care  of  me,  he  said.  I  was  afraid  to  tell  Keturah  the 
truth,  so  I  told  her  that  I  had  spent  the  night  with  Mar- 
garet Howard. 

"After  that  I  used  to  meet  Robert  nearly  every  day, 
and  we  went  to  hotels  and  other  places.  I  begged 
Robert  to  marry  me.  He  said  I  needn't  fret,  that  we 
were  married  already.  He  took  me  out  West  with  him, 
and  he  would  leave  me  alone  for  days  and  days  in  the 
hotel;  and  I  didn't  have  any  money.  Once,  in  Chicago, 
I  was  lost.  They  turned  me  out  of  the  hotel,  and  I  did 
not  know  where  to  go.  I  had  to  go  to  the  station-house. 
It  was  horrible:  worse  than  Mulberry  Street.  I  wished 
then  for  the  dark  room,  with  Keturah's  hand  in  mine." 

"Poor  child,  poor  child!"  said  Dr.  Suydam.  "This 
world  is  a  hard,  cold  place  for  sheep  that  are  lost." 

366 


A  Silly  Sheep 

"When  Robert  told  me,"  said  the  girl,  "that  he  was 
going  to  London,  I  begged  him  to  take  me  with  him. 
He  said  I  might  go  if  I  wanted  to,  only  not  with  him. 
He  would  pay  my  way  over,  and  I  might  meet  him  at  a 
lodging-house  in  a  street  called  Craven  Street.  I  went 
over ;  and  when  I  got  to  London  I  went  to  the  place  that 
Robert  told  me  to  go  to,  and  he  came  to  see  me.  But  he 
was  not  kind  to  me  any  more.  He  told  me  that  London 
was  the  best  place  in  the  world  for  such  a  woman  as  I 
was.  I  could  make  lots  of  money  and  have  a  good  time. 
He  brought  a  strange  man  with  him,  and  they  took  me 
to  see  a  strange  woman.  But  she  laughed  at  me  and 
said  I  was  too  innocent.  Robert  took  me  back  to  our 
lodgings ;  and  when  I  cried  he  struck  me  and  left  me. 

"I  waited  for  him  to  come  back;  but  he  never  came. 
Then  one  night  they  turned  me  out  into  the  streets  of 
London.  And  I  wanted  to  go  somewhere  and  lie  down 
and  die ;  but  I  could  not.  Men  spoke  to  me ;  policemen 
told  me  to  move  on;  and  a  woman  stole  my  coat — made 
me  take  it  off  and  give  it  to  her.  Then  it  was  so  cold 
and  so  dark  that  I  was  sure  I  would  die  before  morning, 
and  I  was  glad.  I  could  not  see  my  way,  and  I  went  on 
and  on  until  I  came  to  a  wall,  and  then  I  laid  my  head 
upon  the  wall  and  cried.  I  could  not  stand  any  longer ; 
so  I  sat  down  on  the  ground  and  laid  my  cheek  against 
the  wall  and  cried ;  but  nobody  heard  me  for  a  long  time. 
Then  I  felt  some  one  take  me  in  his  arms.  He  lifted  me 
up  and  took  me  away  from  the  wall.  He  took  me  in  a 
carriage  to  a  house  and  put  me  to  bed.  I  had  terrible 
pains,  and  then  I  thought  I  heard  a  baby  cry,  and  then 
I  thought  I  was  in  heaven  and  saw  Keturah  standing 
and  waiting  for  me.  Now  I  wake  up  and  find  myself 
here,  and  you  are  with  me  and  you  are  going  to  take 
me  home." 

367 


The  Greater  Love 

"Yes,  my  child;  I  am  going  to  take  you  home,  and 
keep  you  safe  from  further  harm.  Be  still,  my  child;  be 
still  and  go  to  sleep." 

Dr.  Suydam  gave  the  girl  a  soothing  drink,  and  sat 
and  watched  her  until  she  fell  into  a  quiet  slumber. 


CHAPTER  VII 

A  LITTLE   CHILD   SHALL   LEAD  THEM 

DURING  all  the  period  of  Abigail's  sickness,  Marie 
Du  Pre  stayed  at  home  and  denied  herself  to  all  visitors. 
Her  retirement  was  the  talk  of  the  London  clubs;  and 
great  was  the  surprise  of  the  men  about  town  when  it 
was  rumored  that  the  favorite  of  dukes  and  earls  had 
taken  up  with  an  ordinary  American  clergyman.  Dr. 
Suydam's  residence  in  the  house  of  this  woman  was  a 
growing  scandal. 

Lord  Erdel,  of  Erdelsford,  expressed  the  common  feel- 
ing when  he  said:  "I  fancy  we  will  have  to  adopt  the 
American  system  of  protection.  If  things  go  on  as  they 
are  going,  London  society  will  be  Americanized.  Ameri- 
can women  are  marrying  into  our  noblest  families,  and 
American  men  are  carrying  off  our  finest  women.  If 
this  sort  of  thing  doesn't  stop  somewhere,  London  society 
will  be  as  corrupt  as  the  society  of  New  York.  We  shall 
have  a  boss  in  place  of  the  Lord  Mayor,  and  the  Bishop  of 
London  will  be  keeping  his  mistress." 

While  the  world  outside  was  passing  judgment  on 
the  relationship  of  Dr.  Suydam  to  Marie  Du  Pre,  these 
two  were  working  together  for  the  salvation  of  Abigail 
Bain,  and  in  this  common  work  were  forming  the  most 
sacred  bond — save  one — that  can  exist  between  man  and 

369 


The  Greater  Love 

woman.  Marie  Du  Pre  found  in  Dr.  Suydam  a  lord  and 
saviour.  In  the  silence  of  the  sick  chamber,  and  in  the 
presence  of  this  man  whose  one  thought  was  the  salva- 
tion of  a  soul,  the  life  of  Marie  Du  Pre  was  transformed. 
That  old  life  of  sin  fell  away  from  her.  She  was  so  busy 
ministering  to  the  sick  girl  and  taking  care  of  the  baby 
that  she  did  not  so  much  as  think  of  that  wild,  lawless 
life  that  seemed  to  belong  to  a  far-distant  past.  She  did 
not  even  remember  her  old  pleasures. 

As  Abigail  Bain  grew  stronger,  and  the  time  drew 
near  when  Dr.  Suydam  must  take  her  and  sail  away  to 
New  York,  Marie  Du  Pre  began  to  be  afraid,  as  she  had 
been  afraid  in  the  first  days  of  her  sinfulness.  She  looked 
forward  to  the  departure  of  her  guest  with  dread ;  when 
he  went  away  the  old  life  of  evil  would  come  back  again. 

One  night  she  and  Dr.  Suydam  were  sitting  in  the 
little  room  where  she  had  received  him  at  the  first.  She 
was  on  a  low  seat  at  his  feet,  and  was  looking  into  the 
coal  fire  that  was  burning  on  the  hearth.  Without  look- 
ing at  Dr.  Suydam,  she  said  sadly:  "I  fancy  my  time  in 
heaven  is  nearly  gone,  and  I  shall  soon  have  to  go  down 
into  hell  again." 

"M&rie,"  said  the  Doctor,  "why  do  you  say  that? 
Why  should  you  go  back  to  your  old  life?  You  have 
said  nothing  to  me  about  it,  but  I  can  see  that  you  hate 
that  life  of  shame  and  dissipation." 

"Yes,  I  hate  it ;  but  so  does  the  drunkard  hate  his  life 
of  drunkenness,  but  he  gets  drunk  all  the  same." 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  my  dear,  that  you  will  have 
to  go  back  to  your  old  life  again — that  nothing  can  save 
you?" 

"No,  nothing  can  save  me,"  said  the  woman  sadly. 
"When  you  leave  me  I  shall  have  nothing  to  do  but  to 
go  back  to  my  old  ways  and  live  my  old  life." 

370 


A  Little  Child  Shall  Lead  Them 

"But,  my  dear  friend,"  said  the  Doctor,  stooping  down 
and  kissing  her  on  the  brow,  "I  do  not  mean  to  leave 
you.  I  intend  to  keep  you  near  me  always." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  the  woman,  turning 
toward  the  Doctor  with  a  startled  look. 

"I  mean  that  you  are  to  go  with  me  to  my  country.  I 
have  a  beautiful  home  there  that  looks  out  over  a  great 
river  and  upon  lovely  mountains.  I  will  give  you  that 
home  to  live  in  until  you  are  ready  to  go  to  a  new  home 
of  your  own." 

"But  I  shall  be  so  lonely  in  your  country,"  said  Marie 
Du  Pre.  "I  wont  know  anybody  there ;  and  even  if  I  did 
it  could  only  be  bad  people ;  good  people  would  never 
have  anything  to  do  with  such  a  woman  as  I  am ;  and  of 
course  you  could  not  live  with  me — that  would  not  be 
right." 

"No,  I  could  not  live  with  you.  But  I  will  have  some 
one  to  live  with  you.  And  besides,  you  are  not  to  go 
alone.  You  are  to  take  those  who  are  nearest  and  dearest 
with  you." 

"Who,  pray  ?"  asked  the  woman. 

"Your  children,"  said  Dr.  Suydam.  "Did  you  not 
tell  me  you  had  two  children?" 

"My  children,"  said  the  woman  vaguely.  "My  chil- 
dren. Yes,  I  have  children ;  but  they  are  nothing  to  me, 
and  I  am  nothing  to  them.  I  sent  them  to  Brittany  almost 
as  soon  as  they  were  born,  and  they  have  been  there  ever 
since.  I  loved  them  as  a  tiger  might  love  its  cubs.  I 
hated  the  man  who  brought  them  into  the  world,  to  live 
lives  of  obscurity  and  shame.  But  the  children  I  have 
forgotten.  I  could  not  remember  the  children  and  live 
the  life  I  have  been  living." 

"It  is  for  that  reason  you  must  have  the  children  back 

37i 


The  Greater  Love 

again.  You  must  not  live  the  old  life  any  more;  you 
must  live  the  life  of  a  mother  with  her  children." 

"I  cannot!  oh,  I  cannot!  The  children  will  ask  for 
their  father,  and  what  shall  I  tell  them  then  ?" 

"When  they  are  old  enough,  tell  them  the  truth,  if  it  is 
necessary.  But  while  they  are  children,  love  them  and 
let  them  love  you.  That  is  the  best  thing  for  them  and 
for  you  that  can  happen  in  this  world.  You  know  where 
the  children  are  ?" 

"Yes;  they  are  in  a  village  near  St.  Malo." 

"To-morrow  I  will  go  and  fetch  them." 

Some  days  after  this  Dr.  Suydam  returned  from  Brit- 
tany to  the  home  of  Marie  Du  Pre,  bringing  with  him 
two  children — a  boy  of  six  and  a  girl  of  four.  The  boy 
had  long,  light  hair  falling  over  his  shoulders,  bright  blue 
eyes,  and  a  fair  complexion.  The  girl  was  dark  like  her 
mother. 

When  Dr.  Suydam  led  them  into  the  room  where 
Marie  Du  Pre  was  waiting,  she  looked  at  the  boy  and 
turned  pale  and  whispered  "Dipford."  Then,  kneeling 
down,  she  cried :  "Oh,  Dicky,  Dicky !  come  to  me !  Come 
to  me,  my  daughter!"  And  sweeping  the  children  into 
her  arms  she  wept  over  them ;  and  she  said  to  Dr.  Suy- 
dam: "Take  me  away  as  soon  as  you  can  from  this 
wicked  place,  and  let  me  live  with  my  children." 


372 


CHAPTER   VIII 

THE  MYSTIC  WOMAN 

As  Dr.  Suydam  was  preparing  to  leave  London  and 
return  to  his  own  country,  his  mind  went  back  to  that 
terrible  night  when  he  wandered  in  the  regions  of  Picca- 
dilly, seeking  among  the  women  of  the  street  for  the  lost 
sister  of  Keturah  Bain.  He  recalled  vividly  every  inci- 
dent of  that  night,  and  remembered  with  gratitude  the 
woman  who  had  taken  him  to  her  home,  who  had  washed 
his  wounds,  and  soothed  him  to  sleep  on  her  bosom.  He 
remembered  her  as  one  might  remember  a  mighty  angel 
seen  in  a  dream,  she  seemed  so  far  away  and  unearthly. 

So  strong  was  the  impression  which  this  strange, 
wonderful  woman  made  upon  the  heart  and  imagination 
of  Dr.  Suydam  that  he  could  not  rest  until  he  had  seen 
her  again.  He  could  not  think  of  going  to  his  own  home 
while  his  benefactor  was  wandering  the  streets  of  Lon- 
don, a  victim  of  man's  passion. 

Driven  by  a  great  pity,  Dr.  Suydam  went  once  more 
to  watch  the  procession  of  women  that  winds  in  and  out 
and  round  about  Piccadilly  Circus,  Regent  Street,  and 
the  Haymarket.  As  he  walked  through  the  throng  he 
had  compassion  upon  this  multitude  of  the  lost.  They 
were  as  sheep  scattered  abroad,  having  no  shepherd.  Dr. 
Suydam  remembered  that  these  sinners  had  a  friend  once 

373 


The  Greater  Love 

who  kept  company  with  them,  and  saved  some  of  them 
alive.  But  that  was  a  long  time  ago.  That  friend  of 
sinners  was  dead,  and  now  nobody  seemed  to  care.  Night 
after  night  the  same  scene  of  horror  presented  itself  to 
the  consideration  of  the  human  intelligence  and  to  the 
pity  of  the  human  heart;  but  the  intelligence  gave  it  no 
thought,  and  the  heart  no  love.  The  intelligence  of  man 
bad  solved  every  problem  but  this.  Man  had  been  able 
to  measure  the  distances  of  the  stars  and  to  tell  their 
number ;  he  had  made  ships  of  iron  to  float  on  the  ocean ; 
he  had  made  instruments  to  carry  his  speech  from  conti- 
nent to  continent ;  he  had  built  great  cathedrals  and  com- 
posed exquisite  music ;  but  he  could  not  tell  how  to  save 
the  soul  of  a  woman  alive. 

When  she  was  lost  in  the  darkness,  his  only  thought 
was  to  drive  her  farther  and  farther  into  the  darkness, 
so  that  he  might  not  see  her  shame  nor  hear  her  cries  of 
distress. 

The  more  highly  developed  and  refined  the  civilization 
of  man,  the  more  hopeless  and  miserable  was  the  condi- 
tion of  these  poor  creatures  who  had  lost  their  place  in 
the  social  order. 

As  Dr.  Suydam  walked  down  Piccadilly,  sadly  mus- 
ing on  these  things,  he  saw  the  woman  he  was  looking 
for  walking  toward  him.  He  could  not  be  mistaken — 
only  one  such  woman  could  be  found  in  London,  only 
one  such,  perhaps,  in  the  world,  so  large  and  yet  so 
graceful.  As  she  moved  along  the  street  she  seemed  to 
glide  rather  than  to  walk.  It  was  as  if  her  limbs  were 
assisted  by  invisible  wings. 

When  he  drew  near  to  this  woman  of  the  street,  Dr. 
Suydam  lifted  his  hat  as  a  token  of  respect  and  said: 
"I  beg  your  pardon,  madam;  but  if  I  may,  I  would  like 
to  speak  to  you." 

374 


The  Mystic  Woman 

"Certainly,"  said  the  woman.  "I  am  here  to  be 
spoken  to." 

"You  do  not  remember  me,"  said  Dr.  Suydam;  "but 
you  have  seen  me  before." 

"Yes,  I  remember,"  said  the  woman.  "You  are  the 
man  who  tried  to  help  a  woman  of  the  street,  and  were 
hurt  in  a  fight,  and  I  took  you  to  my  room  afterward. 
Yes,  I  remember  you.  What  do  you  want  of  me  to- 
night?" 

"I  would  like  very  much  to  talk  to  you  for  a  little 
while,  somewhere  out  of  the  street,"  said  Dr.  Suydam. 

"Come  to  my  room,"  said  the  woman;  and  leading 
the  way  she  went  up  a  narrow  street  and  up  a  narrow 
stairway  into  a  small  room,  meagrely  furnished  with  a 
table,  a  chair,  and  a  bed.  The  woman  lighted  a  candle 
and  placed  it  on  the  table ;  then  asking  Dr.  Suydam  to  be 
seated,  she  sat  down  on  the  foot  of  the  bed  and  waited  for 
him  to  speak. 

"I  was  wondering,  madam,"  said  Dr.  Suydam,  "why 
you  wander  through  these  streets  of  London  by  night. 
You  are  not  a  wicked  woman;  for  no  wicked  woman 
could  sing  as  you  sang  to  me  that  night  here  in  this 
room." 

"Sir,"  said  the  woman,  "you  are  right.  I  am  not  and 
never  was  a  wicked  woman,  though  I  was  for  years  a 
common  woman  of  the  street.  I  was  born  and  brought 
up  in  the  street,  and  when  I  was  a  girl  I  knew  of  no  other 
way  of  living.  But  now  I  know,  and  I  do  not  live  that 
way  any  longer." 

"I  was  sure,"  said  Dr.  Suydam,  "that  you  did  not  love 
this  evil  life,  and  I  have  come  to  ask  you  if  you  would  not 
like  to  go  away  from  it  all  with  me  to  my  country.  I 
will  give  you  a  home  there,  where  you  can  live  quietly 
and  respectably  for  the  rest  of  your  life." 

375 


The  Greater  Love 

"Where  is  your  country  ?"  asked  the  woman. 

"Across  the  ocean,  in  America,"  said  Dr.  Suydam. 

"And  have  you  no  lost  women  in  America,"  said  the 
woman;  "but  must  come  to  look  for  them  in  London?" 

"Yes,  we  have  many  in  America,"  said  Dr.  Suydam. 
"I  came  to  London  to  find  a  girl  who  had  strayed  away 
from  her  home  and  friends,  who  was  lost  here  in  the 
streets.  I  was  looking  for  her  on  the  night  I  was  hurt 
and  you  took  me  home.  I  seemed  to  hear  her  crying 
while  I  was  lying  on  your  bed,  and  that  is  why  I  got  up 
and  hurried  away.  And  I  found  her  early  in  the  morn- 
ing. Her  child  was  born  that  day.  Now  I  am  taking  her 
home.  Another  woman  is  going  with  us — a  woman  who 
is  tired  of  her  sinful  life — will  you  not  come  also?" 

"I  thank  you  kindly,  sir,"  said  the  woman ;  "but  I  can- 
not go.  I  cannot  leave  London.  It  is  my  home.  I  can- 
not leave  my  sisters.  I  cannot  leave  the  poor  Son  of  God." 

"Have  you  sisters?"  said  Dr.  Suydam.  "Who  is  the 
poor  Son  of  God  ?" 

"Yes,  many  sisters,"  said  the  woman.  "All  the  lost 
women  in  London  are  my  sisters.  I  must  stay  here  and 
help  them,  sir.  This  is  my  world,  and  I  cannot  leave  it. 
My  mother,  a  north  country  woman,  lost  her  virtue  when 
a  girl;  and,  as  all  such  girls  do,  she  came  to  London. 
While  here  she  fell  in  with  a  Norwegian — a  great,  tall 
man  with  light  hair  and  blue  eyes.  My  mother  tells  me 
that  I  am  his  .daughter;  that  I  am  large  as  he  was,  and 
my  eyes  and  hair  are  the  color  of  his.  It  may  be  so.  I 
have  never  seen  my  father,  and  he  has  never  seen  me." 

The  woman  paused,  and  Dr.  Suydam  looked  at  her 
with  tears  in  his  eyes.  He  thought  as  he  looked  that 
kings  might  wish  for  just  such  a  daughter  to  give  in 
marriage  to  princes.  He  said  aloud:  "Madam,  I  pity 

376 


The  Mystic  Woman 

your  father  even  more  than  I  pity  you.  He  does  not 
know  what  he  has  lost." 

"No,"  said  the  woman,  "he  does  not  know  and  he 
does  not  care.  When  I  was  a  baby  my  mother  was  with 
me  all  day,  and  at  night  she  put  me  in  a  little  room  and 
left  me  and  went  away.  My  mother  was  very  good  to 
me.  When  I  was  older  I  played  about  with  other  chil- 
dren in  the  street.  When  I  was  a  girl  grown  I  went  out 
with  my  mother  on  the  street  and  we  walked  together. 
Then  it  was  that  my  eyes  were  opened,  and  I  knew  the 
bitter  life  my  mother  was  leading.  The  slave  of  vile  men, 
beaten  and  trampled  on  by  drunkards,  cursed  by  the  offi- 
cer if  she  stood  still  for  a  moment  on  the  street,  getting 
drunk  herself  as  the  only  way  out  of  her  misery. 

"When  I  could  endure  it  no  longer  I  ran  away  and 
went  far  out  of  London.  But  it  was  even  worse  in  the 
country.  Nobody  would  take  me  in;  nobody  would  give 
me  anything  to  eat;  the  dogs  barked  at  me;  and  I  had 
to  sleep  under  the  hedgerows.  One  day  a  traveling 
tinker  saw  me  walking  in  the  road,  and  he  took  me  in  his 
wagon,  and  I  lived  with  him  for  a  year.  He  used  to 
beat  me  when  he  was  drunk.  One  day,  when  we  were 
down  in  Surrey,  near  Guilford,  he  threw  me  out  of  the 
wagon  and  drove  me  away.  I  went  along  till  I  came  to  a 
hedgerow,  and  I  hid  myself  under  the  trees  to  die.  But 
I  could  not  hide  myself.  A  dog  came  along  and  barked 
at  me.  A  man  followed  him  and  poked  me  with  his  stick 
and  said:  'Come,  woman,  get  up;  don't  lie  there.'  I 
got  up,  and  the  man  looked  at  me  and  said,  'Come  with 
me,'  and  he  took  me  to  his  house.  He  was  a  gentleman. 
He  lived  alone  in  his  lodge  up  Rydes  Hill  way.  He  kept 
me  until  he  died,  three  years  afterwards.  That  was  my 
happy  time.  The  gentleman  was  kind  to  me.  I  learned 

377 


The  Greater  Love 

to  read  while  I  was  there.  We  had  one  child,  a  boy.  At 
the  end  of  three  years  the  man  died.  Then  the  new 
owner  of  the  house  came  and  turned  me  and  my  boy  out 
of  doors.  I  was  a  bad  woman,  and  no  one  would  take 
me  in.  I  lay  all  that  night  on  the  common,  with  my 
child  in  my  arms.  It  was  cold,  and  my  child  cried.  By 
and  by  an  old  man  came  along  and  found  me  and  took  me 
home.  He  was  very  old  and  very  poor.  He  gave  me  a 
corner  of  his  cottage.  There  my  child  died.  We  went, 
the  old  man  and  I,  to  the  parson  and  asked  the  parson  to 
bury  the  child ;  but  he  would  not,  because  I  did  not  be- 
long to  the  church.  He  said  I  was  a  dissenter,  and  could 
not  bury  my  child  in  the  churchyard.  So  we  went  to  the 
beadle,  and  he  buried  the  child  in  the  potter's  field.  I 
lived  with  the  old  man  in  the  cottage  for  a  year.  He  was 
a  good  old  man,  and  I  took  care  of  him  as  his  daughter. 
He  had  only  one  book — the  Bible.  I  used  to  read  it  to  him 
in  the  long  nights,  when  he  could  not  sleep.  I  read  all 
about  Jesus. 

"One  night  I  had  a  dream:  I  heard  a  knock  at  the 
door.  I  went  and  opened  it.  There  was  a  man  standing 
there.  He  was  ragged  and  his  face  was  bloody.  I  told 
him  to  go  away;  that  we  were  poor  and  could  give  him 
nothing.  He  asked  me  to  let  him  come  in,  for  the  night 
was  cold  and  dark.  He  came  in  and  sat  down  on  the 
floor,  and  I  saw  that  he  was  very  poor;  that  he  was 
wounded  in  his  hands  and  his  feet.  He  said :  'I  am  the 
Son  of  God.  There  is  no  place  for  me  in  the  world. 
Wherever  I  go  they  cast  me  out.  No  one  has  any  room 
for  me.'  When  I  heard  this  I  was  filled  with  sorrow  for 
him.  I  knew  what  it  was  to  be  out  in  the  dark  and  cold. 
So  I  said  to  him,  'Sir,  stay  here.  It  is  a  poor  place ;  but 
we  will  make  it  comfortable  for  you.  You  shall  eat  of 

378 


The  Mystic  Woman 

our  bread  and  drink  of  our  sup.'  He  looked  up  at  me 
through  his  tears  and  said,  'I  will  stay ;  stay  with  you  al- 
ways in  your  heart.' 

"When  I  woke  up  in  the  morning  the  old  man  was 
dead;  and  I  went  to  the  beadle,  and  the  old  man  was 
buried  with  the  child  in  the  potter's  field.  When  I  came 
back  I  did  not  feel  lonely.  There  was  somebody  in  the 
cottage,  and  I  knew  it  was  the  poor  Son  of  God.  I  could 
not  leave  the  cottage.  It  was  winter ;  the  days  were  cold 
and  the  nights  were  dark.  If  it  were  not  for  my  poor 
cottage,  the  Son  of  God  would  not  have  any  place  to  lay 
his  head.  One  night  I  came  home  after  a  hard  day's 
work  and  found  the  cottage  empty.  I  knew  the  Son  of 
God  was  not  there  any  more.  It  was  very  lonely,  and  I 
lay  down  and  cried  myself  to  sleep.  In  the  night  I  saw 
him  standing  by  my  bed.  I  spoke  crossly  to  him.  I  said, 
'Where  have  you  been?  You  have  nearly  frightened  me 
to  death,  leaving  me  alone  in  this  cottage.' 

"When  I  looked  at  him  again  I  was  sorry  that  I  had 
scolded  him ;  he  looked  so  tired,  his  wounds  were  opened 
afresh,  and  were  bleeding.  He  said,  'Do  not  be  angry.  I 
have  been  in  the  streets  of  London,  looking  for  my  sheep 
that  are  lost.  You  must  come  and  help  me.'  The  next 
morning  I  left  my  cottage  and  came  to  London.  Here 
I  work  all  day  long  in  the  bake-shop.  I  come  home  at 
five  in  the  afternoon  and  sleep  till  ten  o'clock.  Then 
Jesus  and  I  go  out  together  on  the  street.  If  we  find  a 
girl  that  nobody  will  do  anything  for,  we  bring  her  home 
with  us;  and  she  sleeps  here  in  my  bed  and  has  coffee 
and  bread  in  the  morning.  If  she  wants  to  leave  the  street 
we  find  a  place  for  her  to  work.  But  this  is  hard,  for 
people  ,do  not  like  to  take  girls  who  have  gone  wrong, 
who  have  no  one  to  say  a  word  for  them  except  the  Son 

379 


The  Greater  Love 

of  God  and  me.  He  and  I  do  the  best  we  can,  and  so 
take  care  of  the  lost  sheep.  Sometimes  we  find  a  man 
who  is  not  wicked  wandering  about,  as  we  found  you; 
then  we  bring  him  here  and  save  him,  if  we  can,  from 
himself. 

"You  see,"  said  the  woman,  looking  at  Dr.  Suydam 
with  a  strange,  unearthly  gaze,  "I  cannot  go  with  you.  I 
cannot  leave  the  Son  of  God  to  do  all  this  work  alone 
here  in  London.  I  must  help  Him." 

The  woman  had  spoken  all  this  in  a  low,  musical  voice. 
There  was  no  excitement  in  her  tone.  What  she  said  was 
a  simple  reality  to  her.  Dr.  Suydam  knew  that  he  was  in 
the  presence  of  one  of  those  mystic  souls,  who  mistake 
dreams  for  realities.  But  he  did  not  try  to  waken  her 
out  of  her  dream.  He  simply  said:  "You  are  right. 
You  cannot  go  with  me;  stay  here  and  help  the  Son  of 
God,  who  needs  you." 

Lifting  her  hand  to  his  lips,  he  kissed  it  and  went  out 
of  her  room  once  more,  into  the  loneliness  of  a  London 
morning. 


CHAPTER   IX 

THE   COMPLIMENTS   OF   HIS   GRACE 

THE  day  before  leaving  London,  Dr.  Suydam  went  to 
the  club  to  see  if  there  were  any  letters  for  him.  He  had 
written  Robert,  in  care  of  his  bankers,  and  told  him  to 
address  his  reply  in  care  of  the  club  which  was  frequented 
by  the  Marquis  of  Dipford  and  the  Duke  of  Senlac. 

Entering  the  reading-room,  he  saw,  to  his  surprise, 
the  Duke  of  Senlac  gazing  out  of  the  window.  His  first 
impulse  was  to  turn  and  go  away.  Mastering  this,  which 
he  felt  to  be  a  cowardly  impulse,  Dr.  Suydam  walked 
toward  the  window  and  attracted  the  attention  of  the 
Duke  and  greeted  him,  saying:  "I  did  not  know  that 
your  Grace  had  returned.  I  hope  you  had  a  pleasant 
voyage." 

"Oh,"  said  the  Duke,  putting  his  glass  to  his  eye.  "As 
I  live,  it  is  the  gay  parson,  whose  doings  are  the  talk  of 
two  continents!  Allow  me  to  congratulate  you  on  your 
conversion.  Your  new  master,  the  devil,  is  a  pleasant 
gentleman,  in  whose  company  you  will  have  lots  of  fun." 

"I  beg  your  Grace's  pardon,  but  your  pleasantry  is 
far  from  being  pleasing.  I  know  I  have  laid  myself  open 
to  the  sneers  of  the  vulgar;  but  I  did  expect  a  kinder 
judgment  of  a  gentleman." 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  the  Duke,  "I  have  for  you  the 

381 


The  Greater  Love 

kindest  judgment  in  the  world.  Far  from  blaming  you, 
I  congratulate  and  compliment  you  on  your  success  in 
your  new  role.  You  have  taken  London  by  storm.  You 
have  cut  out  princes  and  dukes  and  earls,  and  have  had 
Marie  Du  Pre  all  to  yourself  for  a  month.  It  has  taken 
our  breath  away.  But,  like  all  converts,  you  are  over- 
zealous.  Your  zeal  runs  away  with  your  discretion. 
You  have  forgotten  that  to  be  successful  you  must  do  as 
the  Venetian  wives  did,  according  to  their  proverb,  which 
was  'not  to  leave  undone,  but  to  keep  unknown.'  " 

"It  is  not  for  me  to  answer  your  Grace,"  said  Dr. 
Suydam.  "I  can  only  say  that  Marie  Du  Pre  is  a  woman 
who  has  been  greatly  wronged  by  one  who  should  have 
protected  her  from  harm.  Who  that  one  is  perhaps  your 
Grace's  conscience  will  tell  you." 

"My  Grace's  conscience,"  answered  the  Duke,  "tells 
me  a  great  many  pleasant  things.  Among  others,  it  tells 
me  of  many  delightful  hours  spent  with  that  charming 
but  wicked  Circe,  Marie  Du  Pre." 

"If  Marie  Du  Pre  is  wicked,  to  whom  does  she  owe 
that  wickedness?"  said  the  Doctor,  severely. 

"Now,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  the  duke,  "you  are  as- 
suming the  privileges  of  your  cloth  and  asking  questions 
which  not  even  a  fool  can  answer.  The  source  of  Marie 
Du  Pre's  wickedness  is  a  mystery.  Better  do  as  you 
parsons  are  wont  to  do — lay  it  to  the  devil.  He  wont 
care ;  it  will  be  a  credit  to  him  to  assume  the  responsibility 
of  giving  to  the  world  such  a  magnificent  sinner  as 
Marie  Du  Pre." 

"Again  I  say  that  it  is  not  for  me  to  answer  your 
Grace !  only  as  a  gentleman  I  beg  of  you  to  speak,  if  not 
with  respect,  at  least  with  pity,  of  the  mother  of  your 
children." 

382 


The  Compliments  of  His  Grace 

"The  mother  of  my  children !"  said  the  Duke,  laugh- 
ing. "Again  I  see  you  fall  into  the  inveterate  habit  of 
your  cloth,  and  make  dogmatic  statements  which  are 
sadly  lacking  in  the  element  of  proof." 

"Sir,"  said  Dr.  Suydam,  "does  your  Grace  mean  to 
say  that  you  do  not  know  who  is  the  father  of  Marie  Du 
Pre's  children?" 

"On  that  subject,"  said  the  Duke,  "as  on  many  others, 
I  am  a  confirmed  agnostic.  The  paternity  of  Marie  Du 
Pre's  children  is  a  mystery  that  I  have  neither  the  power 
nor  the  desire  to  penetrate." 

"But,"  said  the  Doctor,  dropping  all  ceremony,  "the 
woman  says  that  while  she  was  bearing  her  children  she 
was  faithful  to  you." 

"I  know  she  says  so,"  answered  the  Duke.     "You 
are  yet  a  novice  in  the  ways  of  the  world,  if  you  do  not . 
know  that  these  women  lay  their  fault  to  the  most  dis- 
tinguished name  within  their  scope  of  acquaintance." 

"I  will  take  care  of  the  children,"  said  Dr.  Suydam, 
"whom  your  Grace  casts  aside.  Marie  Du  Pre  and  her 
children  are  to  sail  with  me  to-morrow  for  America,  where 
I  will  make  for  her  a  home  in  which  she  can  live  with 
her  children  in  quietness  and  purity." 

"Permit  me  to  congratulate  you  once  more  on  your 
choice  of  a  companion;  but  to  rebuke  the  folly  of  the 
method.  You  are  playing  the  fool  with  a  high  hand. 
What  ,do  you  think  Mrs.  Suydam  will  say  to  all  this  ?" 

"With  this  Mrs.  Suydam  has  nothing  to  do.  I  am 
here  in  the  exercise  of  my  office  as  a  shepherd  of  the 
sheep  of  Christ.  A  girl  belonging  to  my  congregation 
was  betrayed  by  a  member  of  my  household.  She  was 
brought  here  and  thrown  on  the  streets  of  London.  I 
came  here  to  search  for  her.  In  my  search  I  met  Marie 

383 


The  Greater  Love 

Du  Pre.  She  has  been  very  good  and  kind.  She  has 
nursed  the  poor  girl  through  her  sickness.  And  now  I 
mean  to  take  these  women  and  their  children  home  with 
me  to  America  and  give  them  a  chance  to  live." 

"I  have  no  doubt,"  said  the  duke,  "of  the  purity  of 
your  motive;  but  purity  of  motive  is  a  small  .defense 
against  the  wiles  of  a  beautiful  woman.  You  will  find 
it  hard  to  persuade  a  wicked  world  that  you  have  kept 
company  for  weeks  with  one  of  the  loveliest  of  her  sex, 
visiting  her  at  all  hours  of  the  day  and  night,  just  for  the 
good  of  her  soul.  Some  things  are  too  great  a  tax  on 
our  faith ;  this  is  one  of  them." 

"I  do  not  submit  my  conduct  to  your  Grace's  judgment. 
I  must  act  as  I  think  best." 

"Certainly,"  said  the  Duke;  "but  allow  me  to  regret 
that  your  action  will  prevent  my  receiving  you  at  the 
castle  of  Senlac  when  your  beautiful  step-daughter,  Kath- 
erine  Bullet,  enters  it  as  the  wife  of  the  Marquis  of  Dip- 
ford,  heir  to  the  name  and  estate  of  Senlac.  You  have 
chosen  your  company,  and  you  will  have  to  keep  it." 

"Surely,  your  Grace,"  said  Dr.  Suydam;  and  for- 
getting his  letters,  he  went  away,  the  Duke  calling  after 
him,  "Please  give  my  compliments  to  Marie  Du  Pre." 


384 


CHAPTER   X 

OUT  ON   THE  EBB-TIDE 

WHILE  Keturah  was  waiting  anxiously  for  news 
from  Abigail,  she  was  also  in  great  distress  over  the 
condition  of  her  father.  Under  the  combined  influence 
of  drink  and  of  misfortune,  his  mind  had  given  way, 
and  he  was  no  longer  master  of  himself.  He  would 
wander  away  from  the  house  which  Keturah  had  pro- 
vided for  him,  and  go  back  to  his  old  haunts  in  Mul- 
berry Bend  and  along  the  river  side.  Keturah  was  in 
constant  dread  of  some  fatal  accident. 

She  tried  to  persuade  her  father  to  stay  at  home  with 
Mrs.  Sherwood.  To  every  such  appeal  the  old  man  would 
reply :  "I  can't  stay  in  this  part  o'  town ;  it  ain't  my  dees- 
trict.  I  ain't  got  no  infloo'ence  here.  I  don't  know  the 
boys  and  I  don't  know  the  boss." 

"But,  father,"  answered  Keturah,  "you  know  you 
haven't  any  influence  anywhere  now.  That  is  all  gone." 

"Who  says  I  aint  got  no  infloo'ence?"  cried  the  cap- 
tain in  anger.  "Don't  I  vote  a  hundred  or  a  hundred  and 
fifty  at  every  'lection;  and  ain't  that  infloo'ence?  The 
boss  can't  get  along  'thout  me,  I  tell  you.  He'll  be 
tellin'  Flynn  to  tell  Cronin  to  tell  Captain  Bain  to  vote 
his  men  all  right  on  lection  day,  and  then  step  up  and 
get  what's  comin'  to  him.  But  the  boss  and  Flynn  and 

385 


The  Greater  Love 

Cronin  ain't  goin'  to  fool  the  old  man  no  more.  I'm 
goin'  to  have  my  share  'fore  'lection,  not  arterward,  else 
me  and  Johnny  Fox  '11  turn  the  boss  out  and  be  bosses 
ourselves." 

"Don't  you  remember,  father,  dear,"  said  Keturah, 
"that  there  isn't  any  boss  now  ?" 

"Aint  no  boss !"  said  the  Captain  indignantly.  "Aint 
no  boss !  Now,  that's  jest  like  a  woman.  What  do  you 
know  about  polertics?  Aint  no  boss?  I'ud  like  to  know 
how  Noo  York  'ud  get  along  'thout  a  boss.  Easy  as  a 
ship  'ud  get  along  'thout  a  captain,  I  guess." 

"But  father,  don't  you  know  that  the  boss  has  run 
away,  nobody  knows  where,  and  Flynn  and  Cronin  and 
Mr.  Beekman  have  gone  to  Europe?"  said  Keturah 
anxiously. 

"What  difference  does  that  make,  I'd  like  to  know?" 
said  Captain  Bain.  "One  boss  goes,  t'other  boss  comes ; 
allers  a  boss.  Else  who's  goin'  to  get  the  boys  out  to 
vote,  run  the  primaries,  and  all  that?  I  tell  ye,  Keturah, 
if  there  aint  no  boss,  I'm  jest  goin'  down  town  and  be 
boss  myself;  see  if  I  don't." 

Finding  it  impossible  to  persuade  her  father  out  of  his 
insane  notions,  Keturah  had  to  let  him  follow  the  bent  of 
his  own  mind.  The  old  man  wandered  about  the  river 
all  day,  stopping  now  and  then  at  Maloney's  saloon,  hop- 
ing that  some  one  would  give  him  a  drink ;  and  when  that 
good  fortune  befell  him,  as  it  sometimes  did,  eating  a 
little  bread  and  cheese  at  the  free-lunch  counter  and  so 
keeping  soul  and  body  together. 

But  this  could  not  last  forever.  He  was  becoming 
more  and  more  of  a  nuisance  every  day;  telling  every- 
body who  would  listen  to  him  that  he  was  boss  of  the  city 
and  would  give  them  any  job  they  wanted.  One  night, 

386 


Out  on  the  Ebb-Tide 

when  Maloney  grew  tired  of  his  drunken  drivel,  he  turned 
the  old  man  out  into  the  street. 

It  was  a  dark  night  and  it  was  raining.  Captain  Bain 
was  dazed,  and  did  not  know  where  he  was  going.  Walk- 
ing aimlessly  about  the  streets,  he  came  unconsciously 
to  his  old  home  in  Mulberry  Bend.  Nothing  had  been 
done  to  those  rear  buildings  since  the  fire.  _  Captain  Bain 
went  through  the  passage-way  into  the  court  and  stood 
before  the  ruins  of  his  house — the  New  England  cottage 
which  he  had  built  for  his  wife  and  children  in  the  days 
of  his  young  manhood. 

He  felt  all  round  for  the  door,  and  stumbled  over  the 
fallen  bricks.  As  is  the  habit  of  men  in  his  condition,  he 
was  talking  to  himself.  "What's  the  matter?  What's 
the  matter.?"  he  said.  "Aint  this  my  home?  Where's 
mother,  and  Abigail,  and  Ben,  and  Keturah?  All  gone? 
Yes,  all  gone.  Mother's  dead,  and  Ben  he's  dead,  and 
Abigail  she's  run  away,  and  Keturah's  gone  to  live  with 
John's  folks.  Keturah  wants  me  to  live  'long  with  her 
and  John;  but  it  ain't  my  deestrict.  I  don't  know  the 
boss,  and  I  don't  know  the  boys  up  there.  I'd  lose  my 
infloo'ence  if  I  went  up  there.  The  boss  'ud  say  to  Flynn, 
'Where's  Captain  Bain,'  and  Flynn  'ud  say,  Til  ask 
Cronin,'  and  Cronin  'ud  say  to  Flynn,  'Captain  Bain,  he's 
gone  uptown.'  And  Flynn  'ud  say  to  Cronin,  'Strike  off 
his  name ;  he  ain't  no  good  no  more.' 

"No,  I  can't  live  up  long  o'  John.  I  must  live  in  my 
deestrict.  Here's  my  house  burnt  down,  yes,  burnt  down. 
It  was  a  purty  house  when  I  built  it,  jest  like  mother's 
house  in  Falmouth.  White  and  green  blinds,  elm  tree  at 
the  gate,  hollyhocks  in  the  yard.  Abby  Skinner  was  a 
purty  girl.  Pa  didn't  like  her.  I  did.  Kissed  her  on  a 
Sunday  in  the  turning  of  the  stairs — he,  he,  he,  he ! — made 

387 


The  Greater  Love 

the  elders  mad.  Pa  licked  me  like  the  devil.  I  cussed 
him  and  cussed  God.  Aint  had  no  God  sence.  No  use  for 
no  God.  Don't  help  a  feller,  not  a  bit.  Bad  time  on  the 
river,  bad,  bad,  sank  a  boat,  drown  three  people.  God 
didn't  help  that  time,  never  helps.  If  ye  can't  swim,  ye 
drown,  God  aint  no  good.  The  boss  he's  the  one  as  does 
it.  I'm  goin'  to  be  boss,  then  I'll  give  God  a  job,  he  can 
help  me  clean  the  streets,  he,  he,  he,  he ! 

"I'm  gettin'  wet.  Guess  I'll  go  down  to  Cronin's 
saloon,  tell  Cronin  I'm  boss,  make  him  give  me  a  drink." 

Having  formed  this  resolution  in  his  maudlin  brain, 
the  old  man  staggered  to  his  feet,  went  out  into  the  street, 
and  down  to  Cronin's  saloon.  He  pushed  open  the  door 
and  entered  boldly.  Madness  gave  him  courage.  The 
wet  night  had  kept  the  customers  at  home,  and  only  two 
or  three  were  sitting  about  the  tables  drinking.  Captain 
Bain  had  not  been  in  that  saloon  since  the  night  he  had 
thrown  the  glass  of  whisky  in  Paddy  Flynn's  face.  Since 
that  time  great  events  had  occurred.  Captain  Bain  had 
stolen  the  documents  which  had  been  used  to  prove  the 
rascality  of  the  ring.  The  great  boss  was  a  fugitive. 
Paddy  Flynn  was  an  exile,  and  Michael  Cronin  was  in 
hiding. 

No  one  in  the  saloon  knew  the  Captain  as  he  went  up 
to  the  bar.  Standing  there  in  his  dripping  clothes  he  was 
a  pitiable  object  to  look  at. 

"What  do  you  want?"  said  the  barkeeper. 

"A  little  Jamacy,  if  it's  the  same  to  you,"  said  the 
Captain.  The  barkeeper  eyed  his  customer  suspiciously, 
as  he  put  down  the  bottle  and  glass.  Without  waiting  for 
him  to  give  expression  to  his  suspicions  Captain  Bain 
eagerly  filled  the  glass  and  drank  it  at  a  swallow. 

"Well,"  said  the  barkeeper,  "that  was  a  stiff  dram. 
Now  where's  yer  dime?" 

388 


Out  on  the  .Ebb-Tide 

"I  aint  payin'  to-night,"  said  Captain  Bain. 

"You  aint,"  said  the  barkeeper,  "I  'ud  like  to  know 
why  you  aint  ?" 

'"Cause  I'm  the  boss  o'  this  city,  and  the  boss  don't 
never  pay  nothin'.  You  ken  tell  Cronin  that  Captain  Bain, 
as  aint  been  in  his  saloon  since  he  hit  Paddy  Flynn,  was 
here  to-night,  and  Captain  Bain  is  goin'  to  be  the  boss  o' 
Noo  York,  and  Cronin  can  keep  his  job  if  he  wants  to." 

"What  you  givin'  us  ?"  cried  the  barkeeper.  "You  say 
you's  Captain  Bain?" 

"Yes,  I'm  Captain  Bain." 

"Boys,"  said  the  barkeeper,  jumping  over  the  bar,  and 
striking  Captain  Bain  in  the  face,  "here's  the  bloke  as  sold 
out  the  boss  and  drove  Cronin  out  o'  the  country.  Take 
that,  and  that,  and  that,"  and  the  irate  man  struck  and 
kicked  the  poor  Captain  and  cast  him  out  of  the  door. 

Dazed  and  bewildered,  his  face  streaming  with  blood, 
Captain  Bain  made  his  way  down  to  the  river.  The  rain 
continued  to  fall  in  torrents.  The  blows  of  the  barkeeper 
had  brought  the  Captain  to  his  senses.  He  knew  now 
that  he  was  not  the  boss  of  New  York,  but  only  poor, 
drunken  Captain  Bain.  He  steadied  himself  against  the 
wall  of  a  great  warehouse  and  began  to  cry  like  a  child. 
"I'm  beat,  I'm  beat,"  he  said,  "I  give  in,  God's  got  the  best 
o'  me  arter  all.  I'll  go  and  tell  father  as  how  it  was 
wrong  to  kiss  Abby  Skinner  on  the  Sabbath  day,  at  the 
turning  of  the  stairs.  I  wont  do  it  no  more.  If  God'll  for- 
give me  and  wont  be  mad  at  me  no  more  I'll  go  to  church. 
I'll  sing  psalms.  I  wont  laugh  no  more.  I'll  be  solemn 
like  Deakin  Hart.  I  wont  joke.  I'll  jest  pray  and  pray. 
Oh,  mother,  mother,"  cried  the  broken-hearted  old  man, 
"I'm  comin'  home  to  you.  I  know  father  '11  whip  me.  But 
don't  you  care,  mother,  don't  you  care,  I  ken  stand  it. 

389 


The  Greater  Love 

Don't  cry,  mother,  I'm  comin'.  Comin'  home  to  you. 
The  tide's  runnin'  out,  I'm  comin'  right  away.  Open  the 
kitchen  door  and  give  me  some  punkin  pie  and  buttermilk, 
I'm  awful  hungry." 

Blinded  by  the  blood  that  was  streaming  in  his  eyes, 
beaten  by  the  rain  and  whipped  by  the  wind,  the  old  man 
staggered  to  the  end  of  the  pier,  stepped  down  into  the 
water,  and  went  out  on  the  ebb-tide. 

Three  days  after,  his  floating  body  was  discovered  in 
the  bay  and  taken  to  the  morgue.  There  John  Sherwood 
found  it,  and  he  and  Keturah  buried  Joshua  Bain  beside 
his  wife  and  his  son  in  the  cemetery  at  Union  Hill. 


390 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  RETURN  OF  THE  SHEPHERD 

BEFORE  sailing  from  London,  Dr.  Suydam  had  written 
home  to  his  agent  and  secured  possession  of  the  family 
residence  in  East  Broadway.  In  this  house  he  had  lived 
until  his  marriage  with  Mrs.  Bullet,  and  it  was  his  wish 
to  return  to  it.  If  his  wife  desired  to  live  with  him,  she 
must  come  to  him  and  live  in  his  house :  he  would  no 
longer  consent  to  live  in  hers. 

Reaching  New  York  he  was  driven  directly  to  his 
home,  taking  with  him  Abigail  Bain,  Marie  Du  Pre,  and 
their  children.  He  had  sent  word  to  Keturah  to  meet  him 
there,  as  he  meant  to  avoid  anything  like  a  scene  at  the 
pier. 

When  they  reached  the  house  in  East  Broadway  the 
door  was  opened  by  Keturah  herself.  Without  saying  a 
word  she  took  Abigail  in  her  arms  and  kissed  her.  Both 
of  the  women  were  overcome  by  deep  emotion,  and  Dr. 
Suydam  led  them  into  a  reception  room  on  the  right  of 
the  hall,  and  shutting  the  door  left  them  to  themselves, 
while  he  was  looking  after  Marie  Du  Pre. 

Keturah  and  Abigail  sat  still  for  a  long  time  holding 
each  other's  hand.  Keturah  broke  the  silence,  saying: 
"I'm  so  glad,  Abigail,  to  have  you  home  again.  You  don't 
know  how  I  have  missed  you." 

39i 


The  Greater  Love 

"I  don't  see,  Keturah,  how  you  can  say  you  are  glad 
to  have  me  home  again.  I'm  nothing  but  a  bad  woman 
now  and  you  will  have  to  hide  me  as  long  as  I  live.  I 
think  you  would  be  glad  if  I  had  died  as  I  was  dying,  in 
the  streets  of  London,  when  Dr.  Suydam  found  me." 
Abigail  spoke  between  her  sobs,  her  eyes  running  with 
tears. 

"Hush,  dear,  hush,"  said  Keturah.  "You  must  never 
say  that  again.  You  must  never  think  it.  Whatever  has 
happened,  you  are  my  own  dear  sister,  and  I  would  have 
died  of  a  broken  heart  if  you  had  been  lost  to  me  forever." 

"But,  Keturah,  you  can  never  forgive  me.  I  have 
brought  shame  on  you  and  on  all  the  family." 

"Never  mind  about  the  family,  Abigail.  You  and  I 
are  all  that  are  left  of  the  family,  and  we  must  hold 
together.  I  not  only  forgive,  dear,  but  I  forget.  We  must 
not  think  about  the  past  any  more  at  all." 

"Keturah,  dear,  how  can  you  forget?  There  is  the 
baby." 

Keturah  rose  as  if  she  had  been  stung.  "Yes,"  she 
said,  "I  did  forget.  There  is  the  baby,  that  wicked  man's 
child.  I  did  forget." 

"But,  Keturah  dear,"  pleaded  Abigail,  "it  is  my  baby 
more  than  it  is  his,  and  though  I  have  been  very  wicked 
the  baby  has  done  no  wrong." 

"True,"  said  Keturah,  "the  baby  has  done  no  wrong. 
We  must  not  let  the  baby  suffer  for  the  sins  of  its  father 
and  mother.  We  must  save  the  baby.  I  will  marry  John 
right  away,  and  we  will  adopt  your  child  as  our  own  and 
give  it  a  name." 

"No,  Keturah,  no,"  cried  Abigail.  "It  is  my  baby. 
You  must  not  take  it  away  from  me." 

"What  will  you  do  with  it?"  said  Keturah. 

392 


The  Return  of  the  Shepherd 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Abigail,  "but  I  must  keep  it." 

Just  then  Dr.  Suydam  came  into  the  room  and  Marie 
Du  Pre  followed  him,  bearing  the  baby  in  her  arms. 
"Here,  Abigail,"  she  said,  "here  is  your  baby  wakened 
out  of  her  sleep,  she  wants  you."  Keturah  took  the  child 
out  of  Marie  Du  Pre's  arms,  and  looking  into  the  great 
blue  eyes  blinking  in  the  light,  her  heart  warmed  to  the 
child,  and  she  said:  "Poor  baby,  you  have  come  into 
a  cold,  hard  world — a  world  that  does  not  want  you ;  but 
now  that  you  are  here  we  must  give  you  welcome,  and  be 
sure,  dear,  that  your  Aunt  Ketty  will  make  the  world  as 
warm  and  as  soft  for  you  as  she  possibly  can."  And 
kissing  the  child,  Keturah  handed  her  to  her  mother,  who 
laid  the  hungry  little  thing  against  her  breast. 

"You  called  yourself  Aunt  Ketty,"  said  Abigail,  "Aunt 
Ketty,  how  funny.  May  I  call  the  baby  'Ketty'  now  and 
'Keturah'  when  she  grows  up  ?" 

"Certainly,  my  dear,"  said  Keturah.  "It  is  not  a  very 
pretty  name,  and  from  all  I  can  learn  of  her,  Keturah 
was  not  a  very  nice  woman,  that  is  the  Bible  Keturah. 
But  it  was  grandmother's  name  and  mine,  so  we  had 
better  keep  it  in  the  family." 

"In  the  family,"  said  Abigail,  sadly.  "Poor  baby  does 
not  belong  to  any  family." 

"Yes,  she  does,"  said  Keturah,  "she  belongs  to  my 
family  and  always  will.  John  and  I  will  take  her  for  a 
daughter." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Abigail,  holding  the  baby  more  closely, 
"not  my  baby.  You  and  John  must  have  children  of  your 
own.  My  baby  is  my  baby.  I  will  go  far  away  where 
nobody  will  know  us  and  will  bring  up  my  child  as  my 
child." 

Keturah  was  surprised  at  the  strength  of  Abigail's 

393 


The  Greater  Love 

feelings.  She  had  never  expected  her  sister  to  develop 
so  strong  a  character.  Sin  and  suffering  had  done  in 
a  little  while  the  work  of  years. 

"You  are  right,"  said  Marie  Du  Pre  to  Abigail.  "You 
are  right.  Keep  your  child  with  you.  It  is  your  only 
salvation.  If  I  had  gone  away  with  my  children,  and 
lived  with  them  I  would  not  be  the  wicked  woman  that 
I  am  to-day,  nor  have  to  repent  of  the  crimes  that  lie  so 
heavily  on  my  heart." 

"You  must  not  speak  so,  Marie,"  said  Dr.  Suydam, 
"you  are  not  wicked.  You  have  been  greatly  wronged. 
But  you  are  right  in  this  matter.  Abigail  must  keep  her 
child.  It  is  her  duty  and  her  duty  will  be  her  salvation." 

"Yes,"  said  Abigail,  "I  will  keep  her,  and  work  for 
her,  and  she  need  never  know  who  her  father  was." 

"I  suppose,"  said  Dr.  Suydam,  "that  we  might  possibly 
establish  a  common-law  marriage  between  Abigail  and 
Robert.  He  registered  her  as  his  wife  in  hotels,  and 
spoke  of  her  as  such  to  the  men  on  the  yacht.  But  it 
would  be  a  long,  tedious,  and  expensive  process,  and  even 
then  we  might  not  succeed.  There  is  no  end  to  the  money 
which  Robert  and  his  mother  could  spend  in  fighting  the 
case." 

"Oh,  no,  Doctor,  oh,  no !"  cried  Keturah,  "don't  let  us 
ever  think  of  that.  I  could  not  bear  to  have  our  shame 
dragged  through  the  court.  Let  that  man  go  out  of  our 
lives  as  far  and  as  completely  as  he  possibly  can.  I  never 
want  to  hear  his  name  again." 

"I  think  you  are  wise,  Keturah,"  said  Dr.  Suydam. 
"I  don't  think  anything  would  be  gained  by  taking  the 
matter  into  the  courts.  I  do  not  think,  in  any  event,  that 
Robert  would  live  with  Abigail  again." 

"Oh !  I  never  could  live  with  him  again,"  cried  Abigail. 

394 


The  Return  of  the  Shepherd 

"He  was  very  cruel  to  me  at  the  last.  I  would  rather  die 
than  live  with  him."  Abigail  shuddered  as  she  recalled 
the  scenes  of  shame  and  cruelty  that  filled  the  last  days 
of  her  life  with  Robert  Bullet. 

Seeing  her  distress,  Dr.  Suydam  soothed  her,  saying : 
"Have  no  fear,  my  dear,  have  no  fear.  Robert  Bullet  has 
forgotten  you.  If  you  do  not  force  yourself  upon  him 
he  will  never  think  of  you  again.  I  think  we  can,  how- 
ever, easily  have  him  make  a  suitable  provision  for  the 
child." 

"Oh,  no !  no !  no !"  cried  Keturah  in  alarm.  "We  don't 
want  his  money.  It  would  be  a  shame  for  us  to  take  it. 
I  will  provide  for  the  child." 

"No,  Keturah,"  said  Abigail,  "I  will  work  for  the 
child  and  support  it  myself." 

"I  do  not  think,"  said  Dr.  Suydam,  "that  we  need  give 
ourselves  any  uneasiness  about  that.  I  will  be  responsible 
for  the  child.  It  shall  never  want. 

"And  now  come,"  he  added,  "let  us  all  go  down  to 
luncheon.  I  am  sure  that  we  are  hungry." 


395 


CHAPTER  XII 

SHE  SAID,  "I  WILL," 

THAT  same  evening  John  and  Shinar  came  to  see 
Keturah,  who  was  to  spend  the  night  with  Abigail  at  the 
home  of  Dr.  Suydam.  Keturah  came  down-stairs  and  met 
them  in  the  hall.  She  said  to  Shinar:  "Shinar,  sit  down 
for  a  few  minutes,  I  want  to  speak  to  John  alone."  She 
and  John  went  into  a  side  room  and  Keturah  stood  before 
her  lover  and  said :  "John,  I  am  an  old  woman." 

"No,  you  aint,  Keturah.  You  are  in  the  prime  of  life. 
You  are  young  enough  to  be  my  wife  and  my  wife  you 
shall  be.  I  wont  wait  any  longer." 

"Take  care,  John,  take  care.  I  am  an  old  woman. 
See,  my  hair  is  gray,  while  yours  has  not  a  gray  hair  in 
it.  You-  don't  want  an  old  woman  for  your  wife.  You 
are  young  and  strong  and  there  are  hundreds  of  young 
girls  that  would  be  glad  to  have  you  for  a  husband.  Go, 
John,  and  find  one  of  them  and  leave  me  to  take  care  of 
Abigail  and  her  baby." 

"Now,  Keturah,"  said  John  in  alarm,  "you  can't  play 
that  racket  on  me  any  longer.  I've  waited  and  waited  for 
people  to  die,  but  I  wont  wait  any  longer,  especially  for 
people  to  be  born.  If  Abigail  is  to  be  taken  care  of  we 
will  take  care  of  her  together." 

"You  mean  it,  John?"  said  she. 

307 


The  Greater  Love 

"Yes,  I  mean  it,  John,"  he  said. 

"And  you  will  never  be  sorry  when  you  see  my  gray 
hair  and  wish  you  had  married  some  fresh  young  girl  ?" 

"No,  Keturah,  I  wont  never  be  sorry,"  said  John, 
coming  over  and  kissing  her  hair. 

"Then,  John,"  said  Keturah. 

"Then  what  ?"  said  John. 

"Here  I  am,  take  me  and  marry  me  just  as  soon  as  you 
please,  and  the  sooner  the  better  for  we  have  not  long 
to  stay."  John  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  and 
said :  "I  will  speak  to  Dr.  Suydam." 

After  resting  for  a  moment  in  her  lover's  arms, 
Keturah  went  out  into  the  hall  and  said  solemnly: 
"Shinar,"  and  Shinar  said:  "What?" 

"I  am  going  to  marry  John  Sherwood,"  said  Keturah. 

"You  don't  mean  it,"  said  Shinar  jumping  up,  "how 
suddint!" 

"Yes,  it  is  sudden,  I  have  said  I  will."  Then  Keturah 
and  John  went  laughing  up  the  stairs.  "I  know,"  she 
said  to  Shinar,  "that  you  want  to  see  Abigail.  I  will  send 
her  down.  Be  kind  to  the  poor  child.  She  is  very  sorry 
for  what  she  has  done." 

Shinar  went  into  the  little  reception  room  and  waited 
with  a  beating  heart  for  the  girl  whom  he  loved.  Her 
misfortune  brought  her  nearer  to  him,  and  made  it  possi- 
ble for  him  to  win  her.  Shinar  did  not  look  on  that  mis- 
fortune as  a  disgrace,  but  only  as  an  accident  and  a  lucky 
accident  for  him.  The  other  man  was  out  and  it  was 
Shinar's  innings. 

He  heard  the  rustle  of  skirts  on  the  stairs,  and  straight- 
ened himself,  smoothed  his  hair  and  twirled  his  mous- 
tache, and  tried  to  look  the  man  he  was. 

When  Abigail  entered  the  room  and  saw  a  man  stand- 

398 


She  Said,  "I  Will" 

ing  there  she  drew  back  in  surprise,  saying,  "Oh,  I  beg 
your  pardon,  sir.    They  told  me  the  boy  Shinar  was  here." 

"So  he  is,  so  he  is,"  cried  Shinar.  "Don't  you  know 
me,  Abigail?  I  am  Shinar." 

"You,  Shinar/'  cried  the  girl.  "You  Shinar.  I  can't 
believe  it.  I  know  your  voice,  but  I  would  never  have 
known  you.  How  you  have  changed!" 

"Yes,  Abigail,  I've  changed,"  said  Shinar.  "I  couldn't 
help  changin'.  I've  been  livin'  in  the  country  where  you 
goes  to  bed  early,  and  gets  up  early,  where  you  has  plenty 
o'  water  to  clean  yourself  with,  and  besides  my  moustache 
has  growed." 

"I  see  it,  Shinar,  you  are  quite  a  man.  I  can't  believe 
you  are  the  dirty  little  boy  that  used  to  run  about  Mulberry 
Bend." 

"I  ain't  that  dirty  little  boy,  that  boy's  gone.  Never 
comin'  back.  Here  am  I,  Jesse  Shinar,  a  proper  young 
man." 

"Yes,  you  are  a  proper  young  man,"  said  Abigail, 
looking  at  the  tall,  strong  young  man  before  her.  He  was 
far  more  manly  and  handsome  in  Abigail's  eyes  than  the 
young  man  for  whom  she  had  suffered  so  much.  Her 
heart  warmed  to  him.  "So  you  live  in  the  country,  I  hear, 
how  do  you  like  it?" 

"O,  bully,"  said  the  boy,  with  enthusiasm.  "And  you'll 
like  it  too  when  you  get  used  to  it.  I  know  you'll  like  it, 
Abigail." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  the  girl.  "Isn't  it  very  lone- 
some?" 

"Lonesome,"  cried  the  boy,  "I  guess  not.  First  it  is 
lonesome.  You  think  you'll  die  o'  lonesomeness.  You 
think  they  ain't  nothin'  nor  nobody  there.  But  by  and 
bye  you  find  out  what  a  fool  you  are.  It's  just  full  o'  folks 

399 


The  Greater  Love 

and  they  are  a-talkin'  all  the  time,  the  horses  an'  the  cows 
an'  the  chickens  an'  squirrels  an'  the  birds.  Why,  when 
you  come  to  know  'em  all,  you  couldn't  be  lonesome  if  you 
tried." 

"Do  you  know  them,  Shinar?"  asked  Abigail. 

"Know  'em,"  said  Shinar.  "You  bet ;  I  go  out  in  the 
mornin'  and  the  old  gray  squirrel  says  'Mornin' '  to  me, 
an'  I  says  'Fine  mornin'  *  to  him,  an'  he  shakes  his  tail. 
Then  the  birds  say,  'Hurry  up,  hurry  up,  throw  out  some 
straw,  got  to  build  our  nest  to-day,  an'  be  quick  about  it.' 
The  old  rooster  he  gets  up  on  the  fence  and  crows  to  the 
rooster  on  the  next  farm.  He  says:  'Come  over  here 
and  have  a  fight.  City  feller  want  to  see !'  " 

"So  you  really  like  country  life  ?"  said  Abigail. 

"Like  it,"  said  Shinar,  "I  guess  I  do.  I  wouldn't  live 
in  the  city  if  you'd  give  me  the  whole  town,  and  you'd 
like  it,  too,  Abigail,  if  you'd  only  come  and  try.  Wont 
you?" 

"Me?"  said  Abigail.  "What  do  you  mean?  How 
could  I  live  in  the  country  ?" 

"You  could  come  and  live  with  me." 

"With  you,  Shinar?"  cried  the  girl. 

"Yes,  with  me,"  said  Shinar,  blushing,  "I  know  I 
aint  fit  for  the  likes  o'  you.  I  aint  eddicated  like  you, 
but  I  am  goin'  to  school,  I'm  learnin'  jest  as  fast  as  I  can, 
an'  if  you'd  only  come  and  help  I'd  learn  a  bit  faster  than 
I  do  by  myself." 

"But,  Shinar,"  said  Abigail,  "how  could  I  come  and 
live  with  you?" 

"You  know  how,"  said  the  boy.  "You  know  that  I've 
been  a-lovin'  you  ever  since  I  was  ten  years  old.  Yes,  I 
guess  I  was  a-lovin'  you  when  you  an'  I  was  little  things 
playin'  on  the  dock,  and  Keturah  takin'  care  o'  us.  I 

400 


She  Said,  "I  Will" 

commenced  young  an'  I  kep'  it  up  ever  since.  Now  you 
ain't  got  nobody  as  loves  you  like  I  do,  I  say  come  to  me 
and  we'll  go  to  the  country  and  live  together  all  our 
lives." 

"But,  Shinar,"  said  the  girl,  flushing,  "you  forget  that 
I  am  a  bad  woman.  You  forget  I  have  a  baby." 

"I  don't  forget  nothin',"  said  the  boy.  "If  a  man  was 
to  say  to  me,  'Abigail  is  a  bad  woman/  I'd  smash  his  face 
in.  You  aint  a  bad  woman.  You  got  fooled,  that's  all. 
You  are  a  good  woman,  too  good  for  the  like  o'  me.  I 
know  I  aint  got  no  right  to  think  you'll  take  up  with  me, 
but  if  you  will  I'll  be  good  to  you  and  to  the  baby." 

"The  baby,  Shinar?  Would  you  take  me  and  the 
baby?" 

"That's  what  I'm  sayin'.  It's  the  baby  I'm  thinkin'  of. 
I  know  what  it  is.  Here  am  I,  throwed  out  on  the  street 
to  die.  No  father,  no  mother,  nobody  carin'  if  I  live  or 
die,  and  I  would  a  died  if  Keturah  hadn't  took  me  up. 
I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Abigail,  that  baby's  on  my  mind.  I 
wouldn't  have  that  baby  go  without  a  father,  no,  not  for 
the  world !" 

"But  the  baby  has  a  father,"  said  Abigail,  sadly. 

"What!"  cried  Shinar,  "that  duffer  as  t'rowed  you 
down  ?  He  ain't  fit  to  be  that  baby's  father.  That  baby's 
got  to  have  a  father,  and  I  am  the  man." 

"You,  Shinar?"  said  Abigail,  smiling. 

"Yes,  me.  See,  old  Mother  Magrath,  she  died  and 
left  more  than  ten  thousand  dollars  in  the  bank,  that's 
mine.  I  am  learnin'  farmin'  and  I  am  goin'  West  and  buy 
jest  one  of  the  best  farms  in  all  that  bloomin'  country.  I 
am  goin'  to  build  a  house  and  have  horses  and  cows  and 
sheep  and  oxen.  And  you  and  the  baby  are  comin'  to  live 
in  that  house  and  you're  goin'  to  teach  me  what's  what, 

401 


The  Greater  Love 

and  we'll  carry  our  head  with  the  best  o'  them.  Who 
knows  ?  Keturah's  dream  may  come  true,  I'll  be  President 
o'  somethin'  before  I  die." 

"Shinar,  you  foolish  boy!    How  you  run  on!     What 
makes  you  think  I  will  marry  you?"  said  Abigail. 
"  'Cause  I  love  you,  and  I'll  make  you  love  me." 

"And  if  I  did,"  said  Abigail,  "you  could  not  marry  me 
for  ever  so  long,  not  till  you  went  out  West  and  bought 
your  farm  and  built  your  house." 

"Not  much,"  said  Shinar,  "I'm  goin'  to  marry  you 
right  away,  all  on  account  o'  the  baby.  If  we  was  to  wait 
a"  year  or  two  folks'd  want  to  know  where  we  got  that 
baby.  Marry  right  away  and  that  baby  is  ourn,  and  no 
questions  asked." 

Shinar  drew  near  and  took  Abigail  by  the  hand  and 
said :  "Now  Abigail,  say  yes,"  and  as  he  drew  her  toward 
him  she  did  not  resist,  but  allowed  herself  to  be  drawn 
into  his  strong  embrace  and  gave  him,  not  her  cheek,  but 
her  lips  to  kiss. 

As  soon  as  Shinar  recovered  himself  he  went  out  in 
the  hall  and  called  Keturah. 

"Keturah,"  he  said,  "I've  got  some  news  for  you." 

"Have  you?"  said  Keturah,  "what  is  it?" 

"I'm  goin'  to  marry  Abigail." 

"You  going  to  marry  Abigail  ?    What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"I  mean  just  what  I  say.    I'm  goin'  to  marry  Abigail." 

"Abigail,  is  it  true?"  said  Keturah. 

"Yes,  it  is  true,"  said  Abigail.  "Shinar  says  he  will 
take  me  just  as  I  am  with  the  baby.  Shinar  is  a  good  man 
and  maybe  he'll  make  me  a  good  woman." 

"How  strange  all  this  is !"  cried  Keturah.  "When  do 
you  expect  to  be  married  ?" 

"As  soon  as  I  can  find  a  ring  and  a  parson,"  said 
402 


She  Said,  "I  Will" 

Shinar.     "Taint  right  to  keep  that  baby  waitin'  for  a 
father." 

"Come,  let  us  go  and  speak  to  Dr.  Suydam,"  said 
Keturah,  "and  we  will  be  married  together." 


403 


CHAPTER  XIII 

DESOLATION  IN  THE  HOLY  PLACE 

ON  the  Sunday  after  his  arrival  home,  Dr.  Suydam 
went  down  to  old  Saint  Nicholas  Church.  But  not  for 
the  purpose  of  divine  worship.  Before  going  he  knew 
that  the  church  had  been  abandoned  by  its  congregation, 
and  was  awaiting  its  final  destruction. 

When  Dr.  Suydam  reached  the  church  he  found  in  it 
no  outward  change.  It  stood,  as  it  had  been  standing  for 
more  than  a  century,  on  the  crest  of  the  hill  that  slopes  to 
the  canal,  a  landmark  in  the  city,  its  towers  and  dome  ris- 
ing high  above  the  surrounding  buildings. 

Dr.  Suydam  had  his  pass-key  to  the  vestry  room  and 
by  means  of  it  entered  the  church. 

The  interior  of  the  building  was  a  scene  of  desolation. 
The  seats  had  been  removed,  memorial  tablets  taken  down 
from  the  walls,  and  the  communion  table  from  under  the 
pulpit. 

Dr.  Suydam  walked  up  and  down  the  empty,  desolate 
House  of  God  to  the  echo  of  his  own  footfalls.  His  mind 
was  saddened  by  the  contrast  between  what  was  and  what 
had  been.  He  remembered  this  house  when  it  was 
crowded  by  men  and  women  who  outwardly,  at  least, 
worshipped  the  Lord  God  and  professed  the  faith  of 
Christ,  and  now  it  was  empty  and  forlorn.  The  wor- 

405 


The  Greater  Love 

shippers  had  forsaken  this  shrine  and  had  built  for  them- 
selves a  new  temple  near  their  own  homes. 

There  were  still  people  round  about  the  church,  crowd- 
ing by  the  hundred  thousand  the  streets  immediately 
behind  it,  but  to  these  people  this  church  had  no  mission. 
It  could  not  enter  into  and  brighten  their  dark  lives,  it 
had  no  word  to  speak  to  their  suffering  souls,  so  there  was 
nothing  to  do  but  to  tear  it  down  and  build  in  its  room 
houses  of  Mammon  instead  of  this  House  of  God. 

Full  of  gloomy  feelings,  depressed  with  a  sense  of  his 
own  failure  in  life,  Dr.  Suydam  went  up  into  the  pulpit 
and  looked  down  from  it  on  the  wide  empty  spaces  of  the 
church.  From  this  pulpit  he  had  preached  for  ten  years, 
going  up  into  it  Sunday  after  Sunday  with,  as  he  thought, 
a  message  from  the  Lord.  He  had  sought  to  make  his 
message  acceptable  to  the  people  by  giving  it  perfect 
literary  form.  He  had  spent  hours  in  the  composition 
of  his  sermons,  giving  to  them  the  form  and  finish  of  the 
essay.  And  this  was  the  end  of  it  all.  A  church  forsaken 
by  the  people  because  it  had  nothing  to  say  to  the  people. 

Dr.  Suydam  thought  of  his  pride  in  his  preaching  (for 
he  had  a  secret  pride  in  those  productions  of  his  mind  and 
his  pen)  with  a  sense  of  shame  and  humiliation.  A  few 
stern  words  from  some  unlettered  prophet  had  been  worth 
them  all.  Not  one  of  his  sermons,  to  the  composing  of 
which  he  had  given  so  much  time  and  care,  was  worth  the 
paper  it  was  written  on. 

So  thought  the  Doctor  in  his  despondency  as  he  stood 
in  his  lonely  pulpit  and  looked  down  on  his  lonely  church. 
Just  then  a  gleam  of  sunshine  came  through  the  windows 
and  filled  the  church  with  light  and  the  heart  of  Dr. 
Suydam  with  cheer.  He  remembered  Keturah  Bain,  and 
was  comforted  by  the  thought  that  at  least  one  soul  had 

406 


Desolation  in  the  Holy  Place 

been  helped  and  cheered  by  his  preaching.  There  might 
be  many  more  of  whom  he  knew  nothing,  who  had  heard 
him  speak,  and  who  had  gone  away  strengthened  and 
refreshed. 

Dr.  Suydam  was  sad  when  he  remembered  that  he  was 
never  to  preach  again,  never  to  stand  any  more  in  a  pulpit, 
clothed  in  white  raiment,  vested  with  the  outward  author- 
ity of  a  messenger  of  God.  From  this  time  forward  he 
must  speak,  if  he  were  to  speak  at  all,  simply  as  a  man  to 
men.  And  in  his  case  the  speaking  would  be  all  the  more 
difficult  because  he  would  speak  as  a  man  discredited,  a 
man  cast  out  of  his  place  in  the  world,  and  branded  with 
the  brand  of  shame. 

On  his  return  home,  Dr.  Suydam  had  been  served  with 
the  complaint  of  his  wife  in  her  suit  for  divorce.  In  that 
complaint  his  actions  in  the  streets  of  London,  his  resi- 
dence in  the  house  of  Marie  Du  Pre  were  set  down  as 
evidence  of  his  unfaithfulness  to  his  marriage  vows  and 
as  a  reason  why  his  wife  should  have  an  absolute  divorce 
from  him. 

When  the  attorneys  of  Mrs.  Suydam  asked  the  Doctor 
for  the  name  of  his  counsel,  he  answered,  "I  have  no 
counsel,"  and  when  asked  to  whom  he  committed  his 
defense,  he  answered,  "I  make  no  defense."  It  was  the 
thought  of  this  shameful  outcome  of  his  shameful  mar- 
riage that  gave  bitterness  to  his  reflections  on  this  Sabbath 
morning.  He  deserved  the  disgrace  that  had  come  upon 
him,  not  because  he  was  guilty  of  the  charges  which  his 
wife  had  brought  against  him,  but  because  he  had  married 
his  wife  to  save  his  reputation;  he  had  entered  unad- 
visedly and  lightly  into  the  most  sacred  of  all  relation- 
ships, and  he  was  now  paying  the  righteous  penalty  of  a 
loveless  marriage. 

407 


The  Greater  Love 

While  Dr.  Suydam  was  musing  thus  sadly  in  the  old 
church  on  Broadway,  a  far  different  scene  was  transpiring 
upon  Murray  Hill.  It  was  the  day  of  the  consecration  of 
the  new  Saint  Nicholas.  A  vast  throng  of  fashionably 
dressed  people  filled  the  house  to  its  utmost  capacity.  A 
great  procession  of  bishops  and  clergy  moved  up  the 
center  of  the  building  singing  hymns  of  triumph.  The 
organ  rolled  forth  its  sacred  melody,  voices,  sweet  and 
angelic,  rose  and  fell  to  the  cadence  of  a  sacred  song. 

The  Bishop  pronounced  this  house  a  holy  place,  set 
apart  forever  to  the  use  and  benefit  of  Almighty  God. 
The  old  rector  stood  up  and  congratulated  the  people  on 
the  completion  of  this  magnificent  place  of  worship.  He 
told  them  how  they  had  been  obliged  to  leave  the  old 
church,  because  it  was  surrounded  by  the  poor  and  crim- 
inal classes,  and  was  crowded  on  either  side  by  great  busi- 
ness houses,  and  in  the  rear  by  haunts  of  vice,  dangerous 
to  the  morals  of  the  younger  members  of  the  congregation. 

The  rector  referred,  indirectly,  to  the  terrible  calamity 
which  had  befallen  the  church,  in  the  fall  of  one  whom 
they  had  greatly  honored,  who  had  been  lured  to  his  ruin 
by  one  of  the  low  characters  of  that  low  neighborhood. 

While  this  service  of  consecration  was  going  on,  the 
congregation  of  Saint  Nicholas  sat  complacent  in  its  pew, 
congratulating  itself  on  the  grandeur  of  its  new  home 
which  had  not  cost  it  a  cent. 

Meanwhile  the  old  church,  that  had  paid  for  the  new, 
stood  dark  and  desolate  and  empty,  and  the  ancestral 
bones  of  this  rejoicing  congregation  moved  uneasily  in 
their  graves,  knowing  that  their  resting  place  had  been 
sold  by  their  children,  and  they  must  be  taken  out  of  the 
churchyard  to  which  they  were  wonted,  and  be  carried 
to  far-away  cemeteries  in  which  they  could  never  be  at 
home. 


Desolation  in  the  Holy  Place 

Dr.  Suydam,  standing  in  the  pulpit,  saw  a  dark  shadow 
fall  upon  the  dust  and  debris  of  the  forsaken  sanctuary ; 
he  became  spiritually  awake  and  heard  strange  whispering 
sobs,  the  bitter  crying  of  a  despised  Christ,  and  the  weep- 
ing of  forgotten  dead. 

Trembling  and  afraid  he  came  down  out  of  the  pulpit 
and  went  out  of  the  church. 


409 


CHAPTER  XIV 

O  ABSALOM  !  MY  SON  !  MY  SON  ! 

THAT  same  afternoon  Dr.  Suydam  was  sitting  in  his 
reception  room  looking  sadly  out  of  his  window  at  the 
children  playing  in  the  street,  when  he  saw  a  carriage 
stop  before  his  house,  from  which  an  old  man  alighted 
and  walked  up  the  steps  to  his  street  door.  Recognizing 
in  the  old  man  the  Bishop  of  the  Church  in  the  City  of 
New  York,  he  went  himself  to  the  door,  and  opened  it  and 
let  the  old  man  in.  Taking  the  Bishop  by  the  hand,  the 
Doctor  led  him  without  a  word  into  the  room  from  which 
he  had  himself  just  come  out,  and  placing  him  in  a  large 
easy  chair,  sat  down  beside  him  and  said,  "God  bless  you, 
Bishop,  for  coming." 

The  Bishop  was  a  very  old  man  whose  hands  were 
shaking  with  the  palsy.  As  he  sat  and  looked  at  Dr. 
Suydam  tears  ran  down  his  cheeks  and  he  could  not  speak. 

After  a  moment  he  mastered  his  emotion  and  said: 
"Pardon,  Jacob,  the  tears  of  an  old  man,  but  you,  whom 
I  have  loved  and  honored  as  a  son,  have  broken  my  heart. 
You  are  bringing  my  gray  hairs  in  sorrow  to  the  grave." 

"I  am  sorry,  Bishop,  very  sorry,"  said  Dr.  Suydam, 
"that  I  have  caused  you  any  distress,  but  what  I  have  done 
has  been  done  simply  and  solely  in  the  performance  of 
duty.  A  girl  of  our  congregation  was  betrayed  and 


The  Greater  Love 

thrown  on  the  streets  of  London.  In  seeking  for  her  I 
went  to  places  where  the  clergy  do  not  usually  go,  and 
became  liable  to  the  suspicions  that  now  rest  upon  me." 

"You  are  not  guilty.  Jacob,"  cried  the  Bishop,  "tell 
me  that  you  are  not  guilty." 

"Guilty  of  what,  my  father?"  said  Dr.  Suydam. 

"Guilty  of  the  crimes  which  they  charge  against  you  ?" 
said  the  Bishop. 

"If  you  mean  guilty  of  the  accusations  which  are  made 
against  me  in  the  complaint  of  my  wife  in  her  suit  for 
divorce,  I  have  only  to  answer  you  in  the  language  of 
Balaam's  ass.  Was  I  ever  wont  to  do  so?  You  have 
known  me  from  boyhood,  have  you  ever  heard  it  charged 
against  me  that  I  was  licentious  in  my  youth  or  early 
manhood?  Answer  me,  Bishop,  have  you  ever  heard 
such  accusation  against  me?"  said  Doctor  Suydam,  still 
stroking  the  Bishop's  hand. 

"No,  no,"  said  the  Bishop,  "it  is  that  which  grieves 
me;  these  accusations  tarnish  an  honorable,  and,  up  to 
this  time,  a  spotless  name." 

"And  you  think  that  having  escaped  the  fires  of  youth, 
I  have  suddenly  in  middle  life  plunged  into  the  lowest 
forms  of  uncleanness  ?"  said  Dr.  Suydam. 

"No,  no,  Jacob,"  said  the  Bishop.  "I  do  not  believe 
it.  I  cannot  believe  it.  But  that  is  what  the  world  is 
saying.  They  say  that  you  have  brought  the  woman  with 
whom  you  staid  in  London  here  to  your  own  house.  Is 
it  true?" 

"It  is  true  that  the  woman  is  here,"  said  Dr.  Suydam. 
"I  have  given  her  the  protection  of  my  home  until  she  can 
find  one  of  her  own." 

"But,  Jacob,  my  son,"  cried  the  Bishop,  anxiously, 
"have  you  no  regard  for  appearances,  no  consideration 
for  the  opinion  of  the  world  ?" 

412 


0  Absalom  1  My  Son!  My  Son! 

"Just  now,  Bishop,"  said  the  Doctor,  "I  am  not  think- 
ing much  of  the  world.  I  am  thinking  how  I  can  save 
these  women  and  children  from  the  world." 

"But  could  you  not  have  done  this  without  the 
notoriety  and  scandal,  which  has  brought  such  harm  to 
the  cause  of  the  Church  ?"  said  the  Bishop. 

"For  the  notoriety  and  scandal,  Bishop,"  said  Dr. 
Suydam,  "I  am  as  sorry  as  you  can  be.  I  did  not  seek  it, 
it  was  thrust  upon  me,  and  if  I  do  harm  to  the  cause  of 
the  Church  by  doing  the  work  of  Christ  I  cannot  help  it." 

"Jacob,  Jacob,"  said  the  Bishop,  "you  talk  and  act  like 
a  fool." 

"It  may  be  so,  Bishop,"  said  Jacob  Suydam,  "but  God 
needs  some  fools  to  correct  the  evils  of  the  wise.  I  am 
willing  to  be  a  fool  if  by  my  foolishness  I  can  save  a  soul 
alive." 

"What  do  you  mean  to  do,  Jacob  ?"  said  the  Bishop. 

"About  what  ?"  said  Dr.  Suydam. 

"About  this  suit  of  your  wife  for  divorce?"  said  the 
Bishop. 

"Nothing,"  said  Dr.  Suydam. 

"Nothing,"  cried  the  Bishop,  "nothing?  Do  you  mean 
to  tell  me  that  you  will  make  no  defense  ?" 

"None,  Bishop,"  said  the  Doctor.  "Why  should  I? 
Even  if  I  were  to  prove  my  innocence  to  the  satisfaction 
of  a  court  of  justice,  I  could  never  prove  it  to  the  satisfac- 
tion of  the  public.  Men  would  still  put  their  tongue  in 
their  cheek  and  wink  as  I  passed  them  and  say,  'There 
goes  the  parson  who  kept  company  with  loose  women  all 
for  their  good.'  And  besides  if  my  wife  wants  a  divorce 
I  want  her  to  have  it.  For  there,  Bishop,  there  I  am 
guilty." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Jacob  ?"  cried  the  Bishop.  "What 
do  you  mean?" 

413 


The  Greater  Love 

"I  mean,"  said  Jacob  Suydam,  "that  yielding  to  a 
momentary  fleshly  impulse,  I  kissed  that  woman  in  the 
vestry  of  the  church.  And  to  save  myself  from  scandal  I 
married  her.  For  years  I  have  lived  in  degrading  sub- 
jection to  her,  while  she  has  used  my  name  to  forward  her 
vulgar  social  ambitions.  I  have  no  respect  for  her,  and  she 
has  none  for  me.  We  are  not  husband  and  wife,  we  are 
strangers,  and  as  strangers  it  is  best  for  us  each  to  go  our 
way." 

"But,  Jacob,"  said  the  Bishop,  "you  forget  that  if 
your  wife  gains  her  suit,  I  may  be  called  upon  to  depose 
you  from  the  ministry." 

"I  mean  that  you  shall  do  so,"  said  Dr.  Suydam.  "I 
know  that  my  days  of  usefulness  as  a  minister  in  the 
Church  are  over.  Whatever  work  I  am  to  do  for  God  and 
for  humanity  from  this  time  to  the  end  of  my  life,  I  must 
do  not  as  a  consecrated  priest,  standing  aloof  from  the 
people,  but  as  a  sinful  man  among  sinful  men." 

"O  Jacob,  Jacob,"  said  the  Bishop,  "I  did  not  think  you 
would  lay  this  burden  upon  me  in  my  old  age.  I  looked 
to  you  to  be  my  assistant  and  the  next  Bishop  of  this  great 
city,  and  now  you  say  I  must  depose  you  from  the  ministry. 
Can  you  not  go  away  until  this  matter  is  forgotten,  and 
then  come  back  and  take  up  some  quiet  work,  and  so  save 
the  Church  the  scandal  of  your  deposition?" 

"No,  Bishop,"  said  Dr.  Suydam,  "I  cannot  go  away. 
Here  is  my  home,  here  are  the  people  to  whom  I  ought 
to  have  ministered  and  did  not.  I  must  stay  and  make 
up  for  the  time  I  have  lost." 

"But  how  will  you  minister,  Jacob,"  said  the  Bishop, 
"if  you  are  deposed  ?" 

"As  I  have  told  you.  I  will  minister  as  a  brother  to  my 
brothers  and  sisters.  I  will  be,  not  their  priest,  but  their 
friend." 

414 


O  Absalom  1  My  Son !  My  Son ! 

"But  your  good  name,  Jacob,  your  good  name  will  be 
lost.  Think  of  your  father  and  your  mother,"  said  the 
Bishop. 

"My  good  name,  Bishop,"  said  Dr.  Suydam,  "will  be  of 
no  use  to  me 'in  the  world  that  I  shall  live  in.  The  people 
in  that  world  will  believe  in  me  all  the  more  if  my  name 
is  cast  out  by  the  world  of  fashion  and  respectability.  I 
belong  to  the  under  world  now,  the  world  of  bad  names, 
of  thieves  and  harlots.  And  as  for  my  father  and  mother, 
they  are  dead  and  will  not  know." 

"And  you  are  determined  to  leave  the  Church,  Jacob  ?" 
said  the  Bishop. 

"Yes,  Bishop,"  said  Dr.  Suydam.  "I  intend  to  leave 
the  Church  and  go  to  the  people." 

"Jacob,"  said  the  old  man,  rising,  "you  have  acted 
foolishly,  but  you  are  a  good  man.  Of  that  I  am  sure, 
and  I  leave  you  an  old  man's  blessings.  The  Church  you 
are  forsaking  is,  I  believe,  the  Church  of  God.  I  am  not 
to  stay  much  longer  here  on  the  earth  and  my  greatest 
sorrow  is  that  I  will  not  leave  you  in  my  place.  But  go 
your  way  and  take  an  old  man's  blessings  with  you,"  and 
the  Bishop  blessed  Jacob  Suydam  and  departed  from  his 
house,  weeping  as  he  went. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THIS  PRESENT  WORLD 

THE  carriage  of  the  Bishop  had  hardly  turned  the 
corner  of  the  street  before  an  elegant  brougham  drew  up 
before  the  door  of  Dr.  Suydam.  The  Doctor  saw  that  it 
was  the  equipage  of  his  step-daughter,  and  from  his  seat 
by  the  window  he  watched  Katherine  alight,  and  come  up 
the  steps,  with  a  feeling  of  terror  in  his  heart.  The  emo- 
tional excitement  of  his  meditations  in  old  Saint  Nicholas 
and  the  distress  of  his  interview  with  the  Bishop  had  quite 
worn  him  out,  and  he  was  hardly  equal  to  another  strain. 

But  Katherine  was  at  the  door  and  he  had  to  let  her 
in.  He  did  not  himself  rise  to  meet  her,  but  sat  still  in 
his  chair.  When  the  girl  came  into  the  room  she  found 
him  sitting  there  looking  very  old  and  worn.  His  beard 
had  changed  from  black  to  silver  gray,  his  eyes  were 
sunken,  and  his  brow  was  wrinkled.  He  held  out  his  hand 
to  Katherine  and  she  went  over  and  knelt  down  beside 
him,  laid  her  head  upon  his  knee,  and  gave  way  to  a  fit  of 
weeping. 

"There,  there,"  said  the  Doctor,  stroking  her  glorious 
hair,  "don't  cry,  don't  cry,  there  is  nothing  to  cry  about." 

"I  must  cry,"  said  Katherine,  "I  must  cry,  or  else  I 
must  laugh  and  go  mad." 

"What  is  it,  my  dear,"  said  the  Doctor,  "what  is  it  that 
moves  you  so?" 


"What  is  it?"  said  the  girl,  "it  is  this  wretched,  mis- 
erable topsy-turvy  world,  where  everything  is  wrong  side 
up  and  up  side  down." 

"You  have  not  just  found  that  out,  have  you,  my  dear, 
that  you  must  needs  cry  about  it  ?"  said  the  Doctor,  sooth- 
ingly. 

"No,"  said  the  girl,  "but  to-day  I  have  had  it  thrown 
tn  my  face,  and  crammed  down  my  throat.  I  could  have 
screamed  in  the  church  this  morning  with  laughter  at  the 
hypocrisy  of  it  all.  There  we  were,  bishops,  clergy  and 
people  consecrating,  as  we  said,  a  church  to  Almighty 
God.  We  were  giving  it  to  him,  we  said,  and  it  never 
cost  us  a  penny.  We  sold  the  old  church  for  enough  to 
pay  for  the  new  three  times  over,  and  then  to  talk  about 
self-sacrifice  and  serving  Christ,  it  makes  me  tired  and 
sick.  And  then  to  prate  as  the  Bishop  did,  about  its  being 
the  house  of  God  open  to  all  his  children,  when  every- 
body knows  that  this  church  is  set  apart  to  the  use  of  the 
most  exclusive  set  in  New  York  City.  Nobody  can  get 
a  seat  in  it  without  a  certificate  of  social  standing  from 
Mrs.  Schuyler  and  Mrs.  Van  Horn.  The  poor  and  the 
stranger  need  not  apply.  Oh,  Daddy !  this  church  of  yours 
is  a  sorry  humbug." 

"I  will  admit,"  said  the  Doctor,  smiling  sadly,  "that 
there  is  a  gap  between  its  theory  and  its  practice.  But 
Kathe,  you  have  not  come  down  here  this  afternoon  to 
tell  your  old  Daddy  such  an  old  truth  as  that?" 

"No,"  said  Katherine,  "no,  but  I  have  come  down  to 
tell  you  that  I  hate  it  all,  and  I  hate  it  all  the  more  because 
it  slanders  you,  the  best  man  I  have  ever  known." 

"Never  mind  that,  my  dear,"  said  the  Doctor.  "Noth- 
ing is  said  of  me  which  I  do  not  deserve." 

"Now,  now,"  said  Katherine,  "don't  you  talk  cant  as 

418 


This  Present  World 

the  rest  of  them  do.  When  old  Van  Antwerp  was  talking 
about  the  sad  fall  of  one  whom  we  all  greatly  honored,  led 
astray  by  one  of  the  low  characters  that  infest  old  Saint 
Nicholas,  I  could  have  thrown  a  hymn-book  at  him.  The 
old  fool !  He  never  had  a  generous  impulse  nor  a  noble 
thought  in  his  life." 

"Kathe  dear,"  said  the  Doctor,  "if  you  expect  to  suc- 
ceed in  a  social  way,  either  in  this  country  or  in  England, 
you  must  learn  to  bridle  your  tongue.  You  will  never  get 
along  if  you  speak  evil  of  dignities." 

"Daddy  mine,  I  am  going  to  be  Jim  Bullet's  gurl  just 
long  enough  to  say  'to  the  deuce'  with  your  dignities.  All 
the  humbug  of  the  world  is  concentrated  in  its  dignities, 
for  pure  unadulterated  humbug  give  me  the  rector  of 
Saint  Nicholas  Church  and  the  Bishop." 

"No,  not  the  Bishop,  Katherine,"  said  the  Doctor,  "not 
the  Bishop.  The  Bishop  is  a  good  man." 

"Oh,  he  is  good  enough,"  said  Katherine,  "he  is  goody- 
goody,  a  nice  old  grandmother,  but  as  a  man,  bah !" 

"Katherine,  dear,"  said  Dr.  Suydam,  "I  shall  really 
have  to  scoJ  i  you,  if  you  do  not  stop  talking  so  wildly." 

"ScoM  away,  Daddy,  scold  away,"  said  Katherine, 
rising  from  her  sitting  posture  and  standing  upright.  "I 
have  come  down  here  to  tell  you  that  I  disapprove  of  your 
conduct  as  much  as  mother  or  Van  Antwerp  or  the  Bishop, 
but  for  a  very  different  reason." 

"Indeed,  my  dear,  and  what  is  your  reason?"  said  the 
Doctor. 

"They  all  blame  you,"  said  Katherine,  "because  they 
think  you  have  done  wrong.  I  blame  you,  Daddy,  because 
I  know  you  have  done  right." 

"That  is  a  good  reason,"  said  the  Doctor,  laughing. 

"The  best  in  the  world.    Here  are  you,  a  clergyman 


The  Greater  Love 

in  a  fashionable  church,  with  the  richest  rectorship  in  the 
city  in  your  grasp,  and  the  bishopric  ahead  of  you,  going 
about  like  a  knight  errant  of  the  Middle  Ages,  righting  the 
wrongs  of  fair  damsels,  knocking  men  down  in  the  streets 
of  London,  keeping  company  with  women  that  are  as 
beautiful  as  they  are  naughty,  hoping  to  save  their  souls. 
Fie  on  you,  Daddy,  fie  on  you,  for  a  fool !" 

"That  is  what  the  Bishop  said,  Kathe.  He  said  I  was 
a  fool." 

"And  for  once  I  agree  with  the  Bishop,"  said  Kather- 
ine.  "Any  man  who  tries  to  do  right  in  this  world  is  a 
fool,  always  has  been.  Look  now  at  what  you  have  done. 
Saved  a  woman  or  two  perhaps  from  the  street,  but  what 
is  a  woman  ?  pah !  We  are  a  bad  lot,  all  of  us.  We  deserve 
the  street  or  something  worse,  and  for  one  that  is  taken 
away,  three  rush  out  to  take  her  place.  And  what  have 
you  gained  by  it  all?  A  bad  name.  You  have  lost  the 
rectorship  of  Saint  Nicholas,  the  bishopric  of  New  York, 
and  the  elevating  society  of  Mrs.  Suydam." 

"Well,  Kathe,  I  have  for  my  comfort  the  thought  that 
I  have  tried  to  do  what  I  can  to  save  the  world,"  said  the 
Doctor,  meekly. 

"Save  the  world,"  said  Katherine,  "save  the  world! 
There  is  your  cant  again.  Once  a  preacher  always  a 
preacher.  You  can't  be  honest  if  you  want  to.  You 
preachers  have  been  at  work  saving  the  world  for  two 
thousand  years,  and  what  have  you  made  of  it  ?  It  is  no 
better  to-day  than  it  was  when  you  began,  just  as  many 
thieves,  just  as  many  harlots  as  ever.  London,  Paris,  and 
New  York  could  give  old  Rome  a  hundred  points  and 
beat  her  at  the  game  of  iniquity." 

"Yes,  Kathe,  dear,  but  if  we  have  not  saved  the  world, 
we  have  at  least  saved  some  out  of  the  world,"  said  the 
Doctor. 

420 


This  Present  World 

"Yes,  and  you  pride  yourself  upon  that,"  said  Kath- 
erine.  "You  have  made  a  few  smirk,  self-satisfied  saints 
to  gloat  over  the  miseries  of  a  myriad  sinners.  I  con- 
gratulate you  on  the  success  of  your  work." 

"Come,  Kathe  dear,"  said  the  Doctor  with  a  look  of 
pain  on  his  face.  "Let  us  drop  theology.  Tell  me  about 
yourself.  Do  you  still  mean  to  marry  Dipford  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Katherine,  "it  is  the  best  thing  I  can  do." 

"But,  Kathe,"  said  the  Doctor,  "I  have  heard  things 
about  the  Duke  of  Senlac  that  make  me  wish  that  you 
would  not  marry  into  his  family.  I  am  afraid  he  is  not 
a  good  man." 

Katherine  broke  out  into  a  peal  of  bitter  laughter. 
"Oh,  Daddy,  Daddy !"  she  cried,  coming  over  and  laying 
her  hand  upon  his  head.  "You  will  drive  me  to  drink  with 
your  pious  talk.  The  Duke  of  Senlac  is  the  most  famous 
roue  and  rake  of  his  generation.  He  is  known  all  over 
the  world,  has  almost  ruined  his  estate,  and  you  tell  me 
you  are  afraid  he  is  not  a  good  man." 

"And  do  you  think,  my  dear,"  said  the  Doctor,  "that 
Dipford  is  any  better  ?" 

"I  don't  care  what  Dipford  is,"  said  Katherine.  "Dip- 
ford  shall  be  what  I  make  him.  I  am  going  into  this  thing 
with  my  eyes  open.  This  world  is  a  cheat  and  a  humbug, 
but  it  is  the  only  world  I  have,  and  I  am  going  to  have 
my  fun  in  it.  I  am  going  to  dance  with  it,  and  make  it 
dance  with  me.  If  I  did  not  have  twenty  million  dollars 
to  buy  my  place  on  the  floor  of  royal  palaces  and  ducal 
castles  I  would  go  out  and  dance  on  the  street.  And  if 
you  came  and  tried  to  save  me  I  would  make  you  dance 
with  me,  and  we  would  both  dance  with  the  foul  fiend. 
There  now,  there,"  she  cried,  kneeling  down,  "I  am  a 
wicked  girl  in  a  wicked  world,  kiss  me  and  let  me  go." 

421 


The  Greater  Love 

The  Doctor  kissed  her  and  she  went  down  the  steps,  and 
entering  her  carriage,  was  driven  away. 

After  Katherine  left  him  Dr.  Suydam  sat  still  in  his 
place ;  his  arms  outstretched  on  the  arms  of  his  chair ;  his 
head  fallen  upon  his  breast ;  his  face  gray  as  ashes ;  his 
breathing  labored  and  heavy.  The  light  slowly  faded  from 
his  eyes  and  a  horror  of  great  darkness  fell  upon  him. 
Whispering  to  himself,  he  said,  "Was  it  worth  while? 
Was  it  worth  while?" 


422 


CHAPTER  XVI 

AT  LAST 

DR.  SUYDAM  hastened  the  marriage  of  John  Sherwood 
and  Keturah  Bain.  He  wanted  the  event  to  take  place 
before  his  divorce  and  deposition,  while  he,  as  a  minister 
of  the  Church,  had  authority  to  perform  the  marriage 
service.  He  wished  the  wedding,  as  the  last  act  of  his 
ministerial  life,  to  take  place  at  the  communion  rail  of 
old  Saint  Nicholas  Church ;  and  so  it  was  arranged. 

One  summer  evening  in  June,  when  the  sun  had  gone 
down,  and  it  was  twilight,  three  carriages  drove  up  to 
Saint  Nicholas  Church,  and  a  little  party  entered  the 
church  by  the  side  door.  And  there  in  the  dim  light  that 
filled  the  dismantled  church  with  great  shadows,  Jesse 
Shinar  and  Abigail  Bain  were  married  and  immediately 
after  this  John  Sherwood  and  Keturah  Bain  were  made 
man  and  wife.  The  ceremony  was  very  simple  and  very 
solemn.  Dr.  Suydam  knew  the  words  of  the  marriage 
office  by  heart  and  so,  needing  no  light,  married  these 
people  in  the  gathering  darkness ;  the  only  witnesses  to  the 
marriage  were  John  Sherwood's  mother  and  Marie  Du 
Pre  and  her  children. 

As  soon  as  the  ceremony  was  ended,  the  wedding  party 
passed  out  into  the  street.  Shinar  and  Abigail,  Marie  Du 
Pre  and  the  children  were  driven  to  the  Central  Station 

423 


and  went  by  train  to  Tivoli  and  from  there  were  driven  to 
the  Suydam  Manor  House,  which  Dr.  Suydam  had  as- 
signed to  the  women  as  a  residence  until  he  could  make 
other  arrangements.  There  in  the  morning  Shinar  left 
his  wife  and  her  child  in  the  care  of  Marie  Du  Pre  while 
he  went  West  to  make  for  them  a  home. 

Dr.  Suydam  went  back  to  his  home  in  East  Broadway, 
while  John  and  Keturah  were  driven  down  to  the  river, 
and  crossing  the  ferry  in  their  carriage,  rode  up  the  hill 
to  their  cottage  which  overlooked  the  river  and  the  city 
from  the  brow  of  the  Jersey  hills. 

John,  with  the  aid  of  Dr.  Suydam,  had  bought  and 
furnished  this  home  for  his  wife  and  his  mother  (but  the 
mother  did  not  go  with  them  on  their  wedding  night ;  she 
let  the  man  and  his  wife  go  to  their  new  home  alone). 
When  they  reached  the  cottage,  they  found  it  lighted  and 
a  supper  laid  for  them,  all  ready,  except  the  tea,  which 
Keturah  made  with  her  own  hands. 

After  supper  they  went  out  upon  the  porch,  and  stood 
hand  in  hand  looking  out  into  the  night,  with  the  river  at 
their  feet  and  the  city  beyond  them.  It  was  a  fair  night 
in  June.  The  full  moon  made  a  bridge  of  light  across  the 
waters  of  the  Hudson.  The  city  floated  and  shimmered 
in  the  radiance  of  its  own  myriad  lamps,  softer  and 
brighter  than  the  light  of  the  moon :  great  boats  went  to 
and  fro,  adding  their  lights  to  the  light  of  the  moon  and 
the  light  of  city  lamps.  There  was  light  everywhere,  light 
in  the  heavens  and  light  upon  the  earth,  light  in  the  city 
and  light  upon  the  waters,  light  that  shone  in  the  darkness, 
revealing  the  soft  outlines  of  city  towers  in  the  distance 
and  of  craggy  rocks  in  the  foreground. 

The  wind  was  blowing  where  it  listed,  making  music 
with  the  leaves,  and  sleeping  birds  stirred  in  their  nests. 

424 


At  Last 

Keturah  stood  upon  the  porch,  her  hand  in  John's,  and 
bathed  her  soul  in  the  silence  and  the  beauty  of  the  night. 
After  a  long  stillness  she  drew  in  a  deep  sigh  of  content- 
ment and  said :  "Kiss  me,  John."  And  John  kissed  her. 

"The  dirty,  noisy  old  city  is  beautiful  from  here,  isn't 
it,  John  ?"  she  said,  leaning  her  head  upon  his  shoulder. 

"Yes,  Keturah,  it  is,"  said  John,  kissing  her  once  again. 

"Do  you  know,  John,"  she  said,  "I  think  this  life  of 
ours,  which  is  so  hard  and  grimy  now,  will  be  like  that 
when  we  look  back  upon  it  from  the  everlasting  hills." 

"Maybe  it  will,"  said  John,  "maybe  it  will." 

Leaving  the  glory  of  the  night  they  went  into  the  house 
and  came  to  their  room.  It  was  simply  but  neatly  fur- 
nished with  an  iron  bed  with  brass  trimmings  and  white 
ash  furniture,  the  gift  of  Shinar  to  the  bridal  pair. 

As  they  came  into  the  room  Keturah  looked  at  John 
and  said  :  "At  last,  John,  at  last." 

"Yes,  Keturah,  at  last,"  said  John. 

"I  hope  it  is  not  too  late,  John,"  said  his  wife. 

"Too  late  for  what,  Keturah?"  said  John,  "too  late 
for  love?" 

"No,  John,"  she  said,  smiling  sadly.  "It  is  never  too 
late  for  love.  And  I  hope  it  is  not  too  late  for  life.  We 
have  waited  long  years,  John,  and  while  we  have  waited 
our  youth  has  gone  with  the  years ;  I  am  an  old  woman 
now,  most  too  old,  John,  to  be  a  bride.  But  if  love  can 
make  up  for  youth,  John,  you  shall  have  it.  You  would 
have  it  so,  now  take  me  while  you  can  and  keep  me  as 
long  as  you  can." 

And  John  took  her  for  his  wedded  wife. 


4*5 


CHAPTER  XVII 

REST  AND  PEACE 

SOON  after  the  marriage  of  John  and  Keturah,  Dr. 
Suydam  was  duly  divorced  by  his  wife  and  deposed  by 
his  bishop.  The  proceedings  for  the  divorce  were  held 
before  a  referee.  The  Doctor  made  no  defense,  and 
there  was  no  publicity  connected  with  the  case.  His 
deposition  from  the  ministry  was  made  by  his  own  re- 
quest and  called  for  no  trial. 

Very  little  was  said  of  either  matter  in  the  daily  press, 
and  in  social  circles  the  mention  of  the  name  of  Dr.  Suy- 
dam was  followed  by  an  ominous  and  painful  silence,  and 
soon  the  remembrance  af  that  name  died  away,  and  the 
man  who  bore  it  was  suffered  to  live,  unmolested,  his 
mysterious,  secluded  life,  in  the  eastern  part  of  the  city. 

It  was  reported  that  he  kept  and  visited  beautiful 
women  in  the  Suydam  Manor  House  on  the  Hudson,  and 
he  walked  the  streets  at  night  and  was  often  seen  speak- 
ing to  the  night  prowlers,  and  was  known  to  have  taken 
some  of  the  most  debased  to  his  house  in  East  Broadway. 
But  as  he  was  a  fallen  man,  it  was  natural  that  he  should 
consort  with  fallen  women.  And  the 'less  the  world  of 
fashion  and  respectability  knew  and  said  of  him  the 
better. 

As  for  Dr.  Suydam,  himself,  he  did  not  know  or  care 

427 


The  Greater  Love 

to  know  what  was  said  of  him  by  the  world  which  he  had 
forsaken.  He  was  dead  to  it.  And  it  was  dead  to  him. 

For  a  year  or  more,  Marie  Du  Pre  and  Mrs.  Shinar 
(Abigail  Bain  that  was),  with  their  children,  lived  as  the 
guests  of  Dr.  Suydam  in  the  Manor  House  on  the  Hud- 
son. He  visited  them  as  often  as  he  could  leave  his  work 
in  the  city,  and  cheered  them  by  his  presence.  In  their 
company  he  was  always  bright  and  happy,  and  was  often 
seen  by  passers-by,  playing  with  the  children  on  the  lawn 
in  front  of  the  house. 

Dr.  Suydam  and  Keturah  and  John  Sherwood  were 
the  only  visitors  that  these  women  ever  had.  The  people 
of  the  neighborhood  never  entered  their  gates.  The 
presence  of  these  creatures  in  the  Manor  House  was  a 
scandal  to  the  whole  Hudson  River.  From  Greenbush 
to  Yonkers  men  smiled  and  women  tattled  of  the  shame- 
ful doings  in  the  old  Suydam  House  near  Tivoli. 

Marie  Du  Pre  found  in  this  house  that  rest  and  peace 
which  she  needed  for  her  moral  and  spiritual  restoration. 
The  care  of  her  children  gave  her  ample  occupation,  and 
she  found  her  recreation  in  the  great  world  of  nature 
that  surrounded  her.  Her  delight  in  the  river  and  the 
mountains  was  intense  and  without  end.  She  would 
stand  for  hours  on  the  west  porch  and  watch  the  moun- 
tains in  their  ever-varying  moods.  Their  strength  and 
their  serenity  entered  into  her  very  being,  making  her 
strong  and  serene.  She  had  not  lived  with  these  moun- 
tains very  long  before  she  came  to  understand  the  mean- 
ing of  the  Psalmist  when  he  says :  "The  mountains  shall 
bring  peace." 

It  was  with  the  greatest  sorrow  that  Marie  Du  Pre  left 
this  asylum  among  the  hills  to  seek  a  new  home  for  her- 
self and  her  children  in  the  West.  She  did  it  for  the 

428 


Rest  and  Peace 

sake  of  the  children.  Living  as  they  did  under  a  cloud 
of  suspicion,  the  children  could  have  no  companions,  and 
could  not  go  to  school.  So  Marie  Du  Pre  bade  good-bye 
to  the  mountains,  the  river,  and  the  hills,  knelt  down  and 
received  the  blessing  of  Dr.  Suydam,  and  went  to  the 
pretty  home  in  the  Ohio  village,  which  Dr.  Suydam  had 
purchased  for  her. 

This  village,  which  was  rapidly  growing  into  a  city, 
was  in  the  beautiful  Miami  Valley,  in  the  State  of  Ohio, 
and  was  near  to  the  farm  which  Shinar  had  purchased, 
and  where  he  had  made  a  home  for  Abigail  and  her 
daughter. 

Marie  Du  Pre  soon  became  used  to  her  new  home  and 
mingled  freely  in  the  unceremonious  life  of  the  West. 
She  had  not  been  long  in  the  place  before  she  was  beset 
by  suitors  for  her  hand.  No  one  ever  asked  her  any 
questions  about  her  past  life,  but  man  after  man  came  to 
her  with  an  eager  question  about  the  future.  Such  a 
woman  as  Marie  Du  Pre  was  not  often  seen  in  the  West ; 
her  beauty  and  her  grace  drove  the  men  wild,  and  her 
humility  and  sweetness  charmed  the  women. 


429 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
SHINAR' s  COUSINS 

THE  farm  of  Jesse  Shinar  lay  upon  the  southern  slope 
of  a  range  of  low  hills,  which  are  little  more  than  rolling 
land  in  the  Miami  Valley,  near  to  the  town  of  Delphi, 
where  Marie  Du  Pre  has  her  home. 

The  Shinar  farm  is  known  throughout  all  that  region 
as  the  best-appointed  and  the  richest  farm  in  all  the  valley. 
Behind  the  house  is  a  great  stretch  of  woodland  that  the 
Duke  of  Senlac  might  envy.  Nowhere  do  trees  grow  as 
they  grow  in  the  Buckeye  State.  There  are  beeches  and 
birches,  walnut  and  butternut,  elm  and  oak,  sycamore 
and  ash,  locust  and  poplar,  buckeye,  persimmon,  haw- 
thorne  and  pawpaw,  all  of  which  were  found  by  the 
hundred  on  the  slopes  of  the  Shinar  farm,  giving  to  the 
young  farmer  timber  for  his  buildings  and  wood  for  his 
hearth. 

Thanks  to  his  legacy  from  Mother  Magrath,  Shinar 
was  able  to  begin  his  new  life  in  the  West  without  debt, 
and,  what  was  a  marvel  to  all  the  country  round,  he  had 
money  in  the  bank.  The  soil  of  the  valley  was  fertile, 
and  every  autumn  that  valley  would  stand  so  thick  with 
corn  that  it  would  laugh  and  sing.  It  was  not  long  be- 
fore Jesse  Shinar  was  looked  upon  as  a  model  farmer, 
and  as  a  man  of  substance. 

43i 


The  Greater  Love 

The  Puritan  blood  in  the  veins  of  Abigail  Bain 
asserted  itself,  and  she  became  a  thrifty  housewife,  and 
aided  her  husband  in  his  efforts  to  provide  for  their  chil- 
dren— children  who  came  as  fast  as  they  could  come 
in  the  way  of  Nature,  until  a  houseful  of  boys  and  girls 
made  the  Shinar  homestead  a  very  bedlam  with  their 
laughter  and  their  shouting.  Such  merry  children  are 
not  often  found  in  this  world,  as  danced  and  sang  in  the 
great  barn  of  the  Shinar  farm  at  the  husking-bee. 

By  reason  of  her  beauty,  her  refinement,  and  educa- 
tion, Abigail  was  able  to  take  the  lead  in  all  social  affairs. 
"What  does  Mrs.  Shinar  say?"  was  the  question  asked 
whenever  the  women  of  the  neighborhood  met  in  council. 

The  eldest  daughter  of  the  family  was  the  belle  of  the 
valley,  famous  for  her  beauty  and  her  sweetness  through 
all  the  country  side.  She  was  hardly  twenty  years  old 
when  she  was  taken  from  her  father's  house  to  a  home  of 
her  own.  Before  she  was  married,  her  mother  had  a 
secret  conference  with  the  man  of  her  choice.  What  she 
said  to  him,  he  only  knows,  and  he  has  never  told.  What- 
ever it  was  it  made  him  love,  all  the  more  tenderly,  the 
bride  of  his  heart.  If  the  reader  of  this  book  were  to  go 
to  the  capital  of  the  nation,  he  might  see  among  the  first 
ladies  of  the  land,  a  tall,  slender  woman  with  nut-brown 
hair  and  hazel  eyes,  with  a  sensitive  mouth  and  sad,  wist- 
ful smile,  a  woman  whom  all  respect  and  many  love,  and 
whose  husband  calls  her  "Ketty." 

Jesse  Shinar  was  often  solicited  to  become  a  candidate 
for  political  office.  They  asked  him  to  run  for  sheriff  of 
the  county,  for  member  of  congress,  and  even  for  gov- 
ernor of  the  State,  but  he  always  refused,  saying :  "Farm- 
ing is  a  clean  business,  and  I  guess  I'll  stick  to  it."  But 
it  was  written  in  the  Book  of  Fate  that  Shinar  should 
be  a  president,  and  a  president  he  became. 

432 


Shinar's  Cousins 

First,  he  was  president  of  the  State  Grange,  and  then 
of  the  National  Grange.  No  farmer  in  all  the  country 
was  more  widely  and  honorably  known  than  Jesse  Shinar 
of  Ohio. 

When  he  was  first  elected  president  of  the  State 
Grange,  he  came  home  and  told  his  wife ;  he  said  to  her : 
"Abby." 

She  said,  "What  is  it,  Shinar?"  From  force  of  habit, 
Abigail  always  called  her  husband  Shinar. 

He  said:  "You  know,  Abigail,  what  Keturah  said  o* 
me  when  I  was  a  little  shaver,  lying  in  the  straw  under 
the  dock?" 

"No,  I  don't  remember,  Shinar ;  what  did  she  say  ?" 

"She  said  that  I'd  be  a  president  before  I  died,"  said 
Shinar. 

"Well,"  said  Abigail,  "what  of  it?" 

"Well,  I  am  president,"  said  Shinar. 

"You,  a  president,  Shinar;  pray,  what  of?"  said  his 
wife,  with  a  smile. 

"President  of  the  State  Grange,"  said  Shinar,  proudly, 
"and  I'd  rather  be  president  of  the  State  Grange  than 
president  of  these  United  States." 

"I  am  glad,  Shinar,  if  you  are  glad,  but  I  don't  see 
much  in  it,"  said  his  wife. 

"Don't  see  much  in  it,"  said  Shinar.  "Now,  that's 
just  like  a  woman.  I  see  a  whole  lot  in  it.  It  was  sort 
o'  prophesied  that  I'd  be  a  president,  and  I  had  to  be,  and 
I've  been  worryin'  right  along,  feared  I'd  have  to  go  to 
Washington  and  have  all  the  bother  of  running  this 
blessed  country.  Now,  don't  you  see,  I'm  president,  and 
the  prophecy  is  off,  and  I  don't  have  no  bother,  no  salary 
to  draw,  no  polerticians  to  please,  and  nothin'  to  do.  I 
tell  ye,  Abigail,  I'm  relieved  in  my  mind,  I  am." 

433 


The  Greater  Love 

"Well,  Shinar,  said  Abigail,  "if  you  think  it's  all 
right,  why  then  it's  all  right,  but  I  wish  you  would  hand 
on  the  prophecy  to  our  boy  John;  maybe  it  would  come 
out  better  in  his  case  than  in  yours." 

"I  will,"  said  Shinar.  "I  will,  and  I  tell  ye,  Abigail, 
there  ain't  no  safer  prophecy  to  make  about  any  boy  than 
that  he'll  be  president  if  he  lives  to  be  twenty.  When  a 
wise  Providence  created  these  United  States  of  America, 
he  said,  'Every  American  boy  'ull  want  to  be  president, 
and  he  shall  be  president.'  And  then  he  made  presidents 
enough  to  go  round,  presidents  o'  this  and  presidents  o' 
that,  until  you  can  lift  your  hat  and  say  'Mr.  President,' 
to  any  man  you  meet,  and  be  sure  to  hit  it  right." 

"Well,  Mr.  President,"  said  Abigail,  "will  your  ex^ 
cellency  please  come  in  to  supper?" 

"That  I  will,"  said  Shinar,  "for  now  I've  got  to  eat 
for  two,  for  myself  and  the  president  o'  the  Grange." 

There  was  only  one  thing  in  the  life  of  Jesse  Shinar 
that  was  a  mystery  to  his  neighbors,  and  that  was  the 
number  of  his  relations.  Every  now  and  then  a  girl  would 
come  to  the  Shinar  farm,  and  Shinar  would  present  her 
to  the  neighbors  as  "Miss  So  and  So,  a  cousin  o'  mine 
from  New  York.  You  know,"  he  would  add,  "that  I  lived 
in  New  York  when  I  was  a  boy.  Had  a  hard  time.  My 
cousin  has  come  to  visit  a  while."  That  cousin  would 
stay  until  some  farmer  lad  asked  her  to  be  his  wife,  and 
then,  after  a  talk  with  Shinar,  the  farmer  lad  would  marry 
her  or  leave  her  alone.  If  he  left  her  alone,  she  would 
go  farther  west  and  there  would  find  a  home. 

The  departure  of  one  cousin  was  followed  by  the  ar- 
rival of  another,  and  Shinar's  relatives  were  to  be  found 
in  little  farmhouses  all  round  the  country. 

434 


Shinar's  Cousins 

One  day,  Jim  Spence  said :  "Seems  to  me  you've  got 
lots  o'  cousins,  Mr.  Shinar  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Shinar.    "Ourn  is  a  big  family." 


435 


CHAPTER  XIX 

"KISS   ME   GOOD-NIGHT,   JOHN" 

FOR  three  years  Keturah  Bain  found  peace  in  the 
house  of  her  husband.  After  long  waiting,  there  came 
to  her  the  sweet  promise  of  motherhood.  She  waited 
and  watched  as  only  a  middle-aged  woman  can  wait  and 
watch  for  the  coming  of  her  first  child.  It  was  her  dream- 
child  coming  out  of  the  land  of  inward  vision  into  the  land 
of  open  sight.  She  was  to  see  with  her  eyes,  and  hear  with 
her  ears,  and  handle  with  her  hands,  the  incarnation  of  her 
love. 

Everything  that  mother  love  could  devise  was  made 
ready  for  the  coming  event.  At  last  the  baby  was  born, 
but  only  to  breathe  and  to  die.  Keturah  saw  them  wrap 
it  in  its  swaddling  clothes  and  carry  it  away,  and  from 
that  hour  she  began  to  follow  it. 

Her  life  slowly  ebbed  away.  She  did  not  suffer  any 
pain,  only  she  fell  into  great  lassitude  from  which  she 
could  not  rally.  Everything  that  could  be  done  was 
done  to  give  her  strength  and  to  keep  her  in  the  world. 

But  nothing  could  avail.  She  had  fought  her  fight; 
she  had  won  her  victory,  but  her  life-force  was  spent  in 
the  struggle.  In  the  fall  of  the  year  it  was  evident  that 
the  end  was  at  hand.  Word  was  sent  to  Shinar,  and  he 
came  on  with  Abigail  and  little  Keturah.  Dr.  Suydam 


The  Greater  Love 

came  and  went,  and  the  death  watch  was  kept  in  the  house 
on  Union  Hill. 

Early  one  morning,  after  a  restless  night,  she  called 
to  her  husband,  who  was  resting  on  a  couch  beside  her, 
and  said :  "John." 

"What  is  it,  Keturah?"  said  her  husband,  coming  to 
her  side. 

"It  is  morning,  John.  I  hear  the  birds  singing. 
Please  open  the  shutters  and  let  in  the  light." 

John  went  and  opened  the  shutters  £nd  the  cold,  gray 
light  of  the  early  morning  filled  the  room. 

"Lift  me  up,  John,  and  let  me  see,"  she  said. 

John  lifted  her  up  and  she  saw  a  white  mist  floating 
over  the  river  and  the  distant  city,  beginning  to  glow  in 
the  morning  sun. 

"It  is  going  to  be  a  bright  day,  isn't  it,  John?"  she 
said,  wistfully. 

"I  think  so,  Keturah,  it  looks  that  way  now,"  said 
John. 

"Thank  you,  John,  put  me  down ;  I'm  tired." 

John  laid  her  head  upon  the  pillow  and  gave  her  a 
little  water  to  drink. 

"John,  dear,"  she  said. 

"What  is  it,  Keturah  ?"  said  he. 

"John,  dear,  will  you  forgive  me?"  said  Keturah, 
feebly. 

"Forgive  you  for  what,  Keturah  ?  For  being  the  best 
wife  a  man  ever  had  ?"  said  John,  stroking  her  hair. 

"No,  John,  not  that ;  I've  tried  to  be  a  good  wife,  but 
I  couldn't,  John,  I  couldn't;  I  waited  too  long.  Wbnt 
you  forgive  me  John,  for  keeping  you  waiting  so  long?" 
said  Keturah,  as  she  laid  her  face  upon  her  husband's 
arm. 

438 


"Kiss  Me  Good-Night,  John" 

"Forgive  you,  Keturah,  dear,"  said  John.  "There's 
nothing  to  forgive.  You  couldn't  help  it.  You  did  it 
all  for  the  best." 

"Yes,  John,"  whispered  his  wife.  "I  could  have 
helped  it.  I  could  have  said,  'Go  away,  go  away,  don't 
waste  your  life  on  me.'  But  I  was  selfish,  John.  Your 
love  was  all  I  had.  Wont  you  forgive  me,  John?  I 
couldn't  bear  to  send  you  away." 

"Forgive  you,  darling,"  said  John,  kissing  away  her 
tears.  "How  foolish  you  are!  You  could  not  send  me 
away,  because  I  wouldn't  go." 

"But,  John,  dear,"  she  pleaded,  "I  ought  to  have  in- 
sisted and  made  you  go.  You  could  have  married  some 
other  woman,  young  and  fresh,  and  she  could  have  had 
children.  And  see  now,  John,  you  have  a  dying  wife 
and  no  children." 

"Never  mind,  Keturah,  never  mind;  you  would  have 
had  children  if  you  could. 

"Yes,  John,"  she  said,  "that  is  the  worst  of  it.  When 
I  could,  I  wouldn't,  and  when  I  would,  I  couldn't.  Oh, 
John,  as  I  have  been  lying  here,  I've  been  thinking  that 
maybe  I  ought  to  have  married  you  years  and  years  ago 
and  had  children  when  I  could.  But,  John,  dear,  I  was 
afraid  to  have  children  in  Mulberry  Bend  or  Rivington 
Street,  afraid  the  children  would  be  cold  and  hungry  and 
learn  bad  things.  You  don't  blame  me,  do  you,  dear  ?" 

"No,  Keturah,  I  don't  blame  you.  You  have  been 
more  to  me  than  all  the  children  in  the  world,"  said  John. 

"Thank  you,  dear,"  said  Keturah,  kissing  his  hand. 
"Now  let  me  go  to  sleep." 

John  closed  the  blinds,  smoothed  her  pillows,  and 
covered  her  shoulders,  and  she  fell  away  into  a  quiet 
morning  sleep. 

439 


The  Greater  Love 

Later  in  the  day  Dr.  Suydam  came  over  and  sat  down 
beside  her  bed. 

She  looked  up  at  him  and  said:  "Doctor,  it  was  a 
sorry  day  for  you  when  the  rain  drove  me  into  your 
church.  I  should  think  you  would  hate  me." 

"Why  do  you  say  that,  Keturah?"  said  Doctor  Suy- 
dam ;  "you  know  it  isn't  true." 

"Yes,  it  is  true,"  said  Keturah,  "it  is  true.  If  it  hadn't 
been  for  me  you  would  be  a  bishop  now,  riding  in  your 
carriage,  everybody  bowing  down  to  you.  And  now  you 
live  alone,  and  everybody  that  doesn't  know  you  says  bad 
things  about  you.  It  is  a  shame,  a  shame,  and  it  is  all 
my  doings." 

"Never  mind,  Keturah,"  said  Dr.  Suydam,  "never 
mind,  I  would  not  have  it  otherwise  if  I  could.  I  am 
glad  you  came  to  me ;  you  gave  me  a  new  life." 

"New  life,  Doctor,  but  such  a  hard  one." 

"Not  so  hard,  Keturah,  as  it  seems,"  said  the  Doctor ; 
"not  nearly  so  bad  as  the  old  life.  If  it  had  not  been  for 
you,  my  dear,  I  might  have  gone  on  in  the  old  life  till  the 
end,  and  so  lost  my  soul.  I  might  have  been  rector  of 
Saint  Nicholas,  and  have  lived  the  life  of  fashion  and 
worldliness  with  the  people;  gone  on  preaching  sermons 
which  nobody  believed  or  practiced,  and  thought  I  was 
serving  the  Lord.  No,  dear,  no.  You  must  not  think 
I  am  sorry.  I  thank  my  God  that  he  sent  you  to  me,  to  call 
me  out  of  that  life  of  formality  and  unreality  into  a  world 
that  is  real,  if  it  is  nothing  else." 

"Thank  you,  Doctor.  When  I  came  to  you  I  did  not 
believe  in  any  God,  at  least  I  did  not  think  God  cared  for 
me,  or  for  my  people,  or  for  the  poor.  You  made  me 
feel  that  God  was  sorry  for  us  and  did  the  best  he  could. 
Now,  Doctor,  I  believe  God  is  not  only  sorry,  he  is  good, 
and  does  the  best  for  us." 

440 


"  Kiss  Me  Good-Night,  John" 

"Yes,  dear,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"Yes,"  said  Keturah.  "See  what  he  has  done  for 
me.  He  has  given  me  John's  love  and  yours;  he  has 
saved  Abigail.  She  is  happy,  now,  with  her  children. 
Father  and  mother  and  Benjamin  are  dead,  and  out  of 
harm's  way.  I  needn't  be  troubled  because  they  are  left 
behind  me  to  suffer  when  I  am  gone.  Poor  father ;  they 
wont  whip  him  in  the  grave  where  he  lies  to-day.  If 
there  were  nothing  else  in  the  world  to  prove  the  good- 
ness of  God,  death  would  prove  it.  A  God  who  gives 
death  can't  be  altogether  bad.  He  is  sorry  for  his  chil- 
dren, and  when  they  are  tired  he  lets  them  go  to  sleep." 

"He  gives  life  also,  Keturah,"  said  the  Doctor.  "If 
he  did  not  give  life,  he  could  not  give  death.  Surely  you 
are  glad  he  gave  you  life  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Keturah.  "I  am  very  glad.  I  have 
seen  the  world ;  that  is  something.  I  have  John's  love 
and  yours.  I  have  known  what  it  is  to  suffer.  I  know, 
too,  what  it  is  to  be  happy;  I  was  happy  when  I  was  a 
little  girl,  and  I've  been  happy  these  three  years  with 
John,  but  I  am  tired  now,  and  will  be  glad  to  go  to  sleep. 
Do  you  think  I  can  go  soon,  Doctor?" 

"Yes,  dear,"  said  the  Doctor ;  "very  soon." 

"And  you  will  comfort  John  when  I  am  gone,  Doc- 
tor, wont  you?"  said  Keturah,  wistfully.  "John  waited 
a  long  time  for  me,  and  got  nothing  by  waiting." 

"I  will  be  a  good  friend  to  John,  always.  He  is  a 
good  man,  and  I  love  him.  But  come,  dear;  you  must 
not  talk  any  more ;  you  are  tired." 

Keturah  smiled,  and  laid  her  head  upon  the  pillow, 
and  went  to  sleep  again.  Later  in  the  afternoon  she 
wakened,  and  said:  "Call  Abigail,  Shinar,  and  little  Ke- 
turah," and  they  called  them. 

441 


The  Greater  Love 

Keturah  looked  at  them,  standing  between  her  and 
the  light,  and  she  said :  "Abigail  ?" 

"Yes,  Keturah,"  said  Abigail. 

"You  remember  the  lamb's  wool  dress,  don't  you  ?" 

"Yes,  dear,"  said  Abigail. 

"It  was  pretty,  wasn't  it?     So  soft  and  nice." 

"Yes,  dear,"  said  her  sister. 

"I  meant  it  for  my  wedding  dress,  but  I  gave  it  to 
you ;  did  you  like  it  ?" 

"Yes,  dear,  it  was  very  beautiful." 

"Yes,  it  was  beautiful,  and  you  were  so  pretty  the 
morning  you  put  it  on.  And  then  something  dreadful 
happened,  but  it  is  all  over.  You  are  happy  now,  aren't 
you?" 

"Yes,  dear,  very  happy,"  said  Abigail. 

"And  you  have  children?"  said  Keturah. 

"Yes,"  said  Abigail,  "two,  besides  Ketty." 

"And  they  don't  live  down  in  Mulberry  Bend?"  said 
Keturah,  anxiously. 

"No,  dear,"  said  Abigail,  "they  live  far  away,  in  a 
beautiful  country. 

"I  am  so  glad,"  said  Keturah,  "I  was  afraid  they 
might  be  in  Mulberry  Bend.  And  Shinar,  is  he  a  good 
boy  now?" 

"Yes,  Keturah,"  said  Abigail,  "very  good." 

"You  will  always  take  care  of  him,  wont  you,  Abi- 
gail?" said  Keturah. 

"Yes,  dear,  always,"  said  Abigail. 

"And  you  will  always  do  as  Abigail  says,  wont  you, 
Shinar,  when  I  am  gone?  You  wont  run  away  any 
more  and  have  dog-fights?" 

"No,  Keturah,"  said  Shinar ;  "I  will  always  stay  with 
Abigail,  and  won't  fight  dogs  no  more." 

442 


"  Kiss  Me  Good-Night,  John" 

"Thank  you,  Shinar,  and  who  is  this?"  said  Keturah, 
looking  at  the  little  girl. 

"This  is  little  Ketty,"  said  Shinar.  "Ketty,"  he 
said,  "go  kiss  your  Aunt  Keturah." 

"Yes,  my  dear,  come  kiss  your  aunt  good-by.  She 
is  going  far,  far  away."  The  little  one  crept  up  and 
kissed  the  sick  woman,  and  then  burst  out  into  loud 
crying,  and  her  mother  and  Shinar  took  her  away. 

The  shadows  of  the  evening  fell  upon  the  face  of  the 
dying  woman,  and  the  night-lamp  was  lighted.  Her 
husband  and  Dr.  Suydam  sat  watching  the  hours  go  by. 

Keturah  was  restless  and  wandering  in  her  mind.  In 
the  early  morning  hour  she  called  in  a  loud  voice  :  "John !" 

"What  is  it,  Keturah  ?"  said  John,  coming  to  her  bed- 
side. 

"The  baby  didn't  die  after  all,  John,"  she  said. 

"Didn't  he?"  said  John. 

"No,  he  is  alive  and  calling  me;  may  I  go  to  him?" 
she  said,  raising  herself  up. 

"Where  is  he,  Keturah?"  said  John,  trying  to  quiet 
her. 

"He  is  in  the  next  room.  You  won't  mind  if  I  go 
and  sleep  with  him  to-night,  will  you,  dear?" 

"No,  Keturah,"  said  John. 

"Then  kiss  me  good-night,  John,  and  let  me  go." 

John  stooped  down  and  kissed  her.  She  gave  a  deep 
sigh  of  satisfaction,  there  was  a  quiver  of  the  chin,  and 
the  soul  of  Keturah  Bain  was  gone  into  the  next  room, 
to  sleep  with  her  sleeping  child. 

Three  days  afterward  they  buried  her  in  Union  Hill, 
and  as  they  stood  at  the  grave,  after  the  sexton  had  filled 
it  in,  Dr.  Suydam  took  the  spade  and  marked  out  a  grave 
at  the  foot  of,  and  transverse  to  the  grave  of  Keturah 

443 


The  Greater  Love 

Bain,  and  turning  to  John  Sherwood,  he  said :  "John,  if 
I  die  before  you  do,  bury  me  here." 

And  John  said :  "I  will." 

In  due  time  a  simple  cross  marked  the  resting-place 
of  Keturah  Bain,  the  wife  of  John  Sherwood.  Upon  the 
stone  was  inscribed  her  name,  the  day  of  her  birth  and 
of  her  death,  and  underneath,  the  words : 

"Her  Life  was  a  Sacrifice  of  Sweet  Savour  unto 
the  Lord." 


CHAPTER  XX 

DR.  SUYDAM  IS  DEAD 

THE  winter  after  the  death  of  Keturah  Bain  was  a 
hard  winter  for  the  poor  in  the  city  of  New  York.  The 
months  of  December  and  January  were  very  cold,  and  the 
great  coal  barons  made  the  severe  weather  an  occasion  for 
raising  the  price  of  fuel.  The  very  poor  could  only  af- 
ford a  basket  now  and  then.  They  shivered  in  their  gar- 
rets and  their  cellars,  and  died  by  the  hundreds  of  pneu- 
monia. 

The  cold  snap  was  followed  in  February  by  a  warm, 
soggy  spell  of  weather  that  melted  the  snow  from  the 
unclean  streets,  and  liberated  the  germs  to  do  their  deadly 
work.  As  a  consequence  of  all  this,  the  black  typhus 
broke  out  in  the  region  of  Mulberry  Bend.  The  typhus 
was  more  fatal  than  the  pneumonia,  and  numbered  its 
victims  by  the  thousand. 

John  Sherwood  knew  that  Dr.  Suydam  visited  the 
sick  in  and  about  Mulberry  Bend,  and  hearing  nothing 
from  him,  went  to  his  house  one  evening,  to  see  if  there 
was  anything  he  could  do  for  him.  When  he  came  near 
to  the  house,  a  woman  said  to  him :  "You  mustn't  go  in 
there." 

"Why  not?"  said  Sherwood. 

'"Cause  they've  got  the  fever,"  said  the  woman. 

445 


The  Greater  Love 

Hearing  this,  John  went  quickly  up  the  steps,  and 
rang  the  bell ;  as  no  one  answered,  he  tried  the  door,  and 
finding  it  on  the  latch,  went  in.  There  was  not  a  sound 
in  the  house,  and  he  thought  the  Doctor  must  have  gone 
out.  But  to  make  sure,  he  went  from  room  to  room, 
seeking  him. 

Sherwood  came  at  last  to  the  Doctor's  bedroom,  and 
without  knocking,  he  opened  the  door,  and  went  in,  and 
there  he  saw  a  woman  sitting  at  the  head  of  the  bed, 
smoothing  the  hair  of  Dr.  Suydam,  who  was  lying  on  his 
side  with  his  face  toward  the  wall. 

As  Sherwood  entered  the  room,  the  woman  looked 
up  and  said :  "What  do  you  want  ?" 

"I  want  to  see  Dr.  Suydam,"  said  Sherwood. 

"You  can't  see  him,"  said  the  woman. 

"Why  not?"  said  Sherwood. 

"'Cause  he  is  asleep,"  said  the  woman. 

"Is  he  ?"  said  Sherwood,  as  he  walked  to  the  bed  and 
laid  his  hand  upon  the  Doctor's  hand. 

"Yes,"  said  the  woman,  "he  is,  and  don't  you  wake 
him  up." 

"I  can't  wake  him,"  said  Sherwood;  "he  will  never 
wake  again.  He  is  not  asleep,  he  is  dead." 

"What's  that  you  say  ?"  said  the  woman,  "dead  ?  I  tell 
you  he  ain't  dead,  he's  only  sleeping." 

"No,  my  good  woman,"  said  Sherwood,  laying  his 
hand  over  the  Doctor's  heart;  "Dr.  Suydam  is  not  sleep- 
ing— he  is  dead." 

"Dead,    did    you    say?"    said    the    woman,    wildly. 
"Dead?    I  tell  ye,  yer  lie;  the  like  o'  him  can't  die." 

"Who  are  you  ?"  said  Sherwood.  "And  what  are  you 
doing  here  alone  with  Dr.  Suydam?" 

"Who  am  I  ?"  cried  the  woman.     "Who  am  I  ?    I'm 

446 


Dr.  Suydam  is  Dead 

Carrie  Twine.  Keturah  Bain  turned  me  out  o'  the  shop 
all  on  account  o'  Jim  Cardon.  In  the  likes  o'  that  the 
woman  gets  it  in  the  neck,  and  the  man  don't  get  nothin' 
at  all.  I  was  t'rowed  on  the  streets,  and  had  to  hustle. 
I  was  kicked  about  worse  'an  a  dog ;  the  perlice  took  my 
money,  and  when  I  didn't  have  no  more,  dey  run  me  in. 
I  was  starvin'  half  the  time,  and  drinkin'  the  rest.  One 
night  I  was  out,  and  it  was  rainin',  and  there  wasn't  a  man 
to  be  seen  in  the  street.  I  hadn't  nothin'  to  eat  all  day. 
And  when  I  was  draggin'  along,  thinkin'  as  how  I'd  go 
down  to  the  river  and  drown  meself,  an  old  man  came 
along  and  as't  me  if  I'd  go  home  along  o'  him.  Go  home? 
Why,  I'd  gone  home  that  night  with  a  mad  dog  to  his 
kennel,  just  to  get  warm.  And  the  man,  he  called  a  ker- 
ridge  and  put  me  in  it.  Me  in  a  kerridge!  And  he 
drove  me  to  his  house,  and  he  took  me  upstairs  to  a 
room,  and  gave  me  a  clean  night-gown,  and  told  me  to 
go  to  bed.  And  I  went  to  bed,  and  by  and  by,  he  come 
up  again,  and  brought  me  some  hot  milk  and  toast,  and 
when  I  was  through  wid  it,  he  told  me  to  go  to  sleep, 
and  he  didn't  come  near  me  all  that  night.  In  the  morn- 
ing he  brought  me  coffee  and  eggs,  and  told  me  as  how  I 
wasn't  to  get  up  that  day,  but  lay  still  and  rest.  I  lay 
still,  and  thought  I  was  in  heaven,  what  mother  used  to 
tell  me  about.  He  brought  me  dinner  and  me  supper, 
and  I  slept  all  the  day  and  all  the  night.  The  next  day 
I  as't  him  if  he  wouldn't  keep  me  and  let  me  work  for 
him.  I'd  clean  his  shoes  or  anything.  He  said  I  might. 
Day  before  yisterday  he  came  home  wid  the  fever  and 
everybody  run  away,  but  I  stayed.  I  gave  him  water  to 
drink,  and  made  him  take  off  his  clothes,  and  put  him  to 
bed.  He  kept  talkin',  talkin',  talkin',  all  the  time,  talkin' 
about  lost  sheep,  talkin'  'bout  goin'  arter  'em,  talkin'  'bout 

447 


The  Greater  Love 

people  bein'  frozen,  callin'  Keturah,  Kathe,  and  the  like 
o'  that,  till  this  mornin',  when  he  went  to  sleep,  and  he's 
been  sleepin'  ever  since." 

John  Sherwood  did  not  contradict  the  woman,  but 
went  to  the  nearest  station  and  sent  a  messenger  boy  to 
the  writer  of  this  book,  saying:  "Dr.  Suydam  is  dead. 
Will  you  come  and  help  me  take  care  of  him  ?" 

The  writer  went  at  once,  and  found  the  Doctor  lying 
as  Sherwood  had  found  him,  on  his  right  side,  with  his 
face  to  the  wall.  We  lifted  him  up  and  carried  him  to  a 
couch,  to  prepare  him  for  the  grave.  On  his  face  was 
the  glory  of  perfect  rest  and  peace.  We  sent  to  the 
nearest  police-station  and  asked  them  to  send  a  coroner  to 
view  the  body  and  give  us  permission  to  bury  it.  The 
coroner  came,  and  said  the  man  had  died  of  the  fever, 
and  must  be  buried  at  once.  We  said  we  would  bury  him 
as  soon  as  it  was  light,  in  the  cemetery  at  Union  Hill,  and 
the  coroner  gave  us  a  permit  to  take  the  body  out  of  the 
city. 

We  went  to  the  nearest  undertaker's  shop  and  bought 
a  simple  coffin.  We  took  him  as  he  was  in  his  night-robe, 
and  wrapped  him  in  a  blanket,  and  laid  him  in  the  coffin. 
Then  we  carried  him  down  into  the  great  drawing-room 
on  the  second  floor  and  placed  the  coffin  on  two  chairs, 
and  sitting  down,  we  watched  him  there. 

In  some  mysterious  way  the  news  went  abroad 
through  all  that  under  world  that  Dr.  Suydam  was  dead. 
At  midnight  they  began  to  come,  at  first  by  ones  and 
twos,  then  by  threes  and  fours,  then  by  tens  and  twenties, 
an  unending  procession  of  men  and  women  coming  to 
look  on  the  face  of  the  dead. 

John  Sherwood  and  the  writer  of  this  book  sat  in  the 
shadow  and  watched  these  men  and  women  pass  under 

448 


Dr.  Suydam  is  Dead 

the  light  that  lighted  the  face  of  the  dead.  Shriveled 
hags  and  bedraggled  girls  from  the  street,  trembling  old 
men,  and  men  with  stern,  hard  faces;  they  came  and 
looked  and  went  away.  Women  stooped  down  and  kissed 
the  dead  hands,  and  men  paused  as  if  they  would  speak 
to  him ;  and  so  it  went  on  all  the  night  through. 

Early  in  the  evening  John  Sherwood  had  telegraphed 
to  the  keeper  of  the  cemetery  at  Union  Hill  to  open  a 
grave  at  the  foot  of  and  at  right  angles  with,  the  grave 
of  Keturah  Bain,  wife  of  John  Sherwood,  and  to  have 
it  ready  as  early  in  the  morning  as  possible. 

As  soon  as  it  was  light,  we  covered  his  face,  and  car- 
ried him  down  the  steps  and  placed  the  coffin  in  the 
waiting  hearse. 

John  Sherwood,  the  writer  of  this,  and  the  woman, 
Carrie  Twine,  followed  in  a  single  carriage  until  we 
came  to  Union  Hill. 

Then  we  buried  him  in  the  grave  that  he  had  chosen, 
throwing  earth  upon  the  coffin,  saying:  "Earth  to  earth, 
ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust." 

The  woman  Carrie  Twine  stood  in  blank  silence, 
while  the  grave-digger  threw  the  earth  in  and  filled  up 
the  grave.  We  tried  to  draw  her  away,  but  she  would 
not  come. 

At  last,  when  the  grave-digger's  work  was  finished, 
and  a  mound  of  fresh-turned  earth  lay,  dark  and  cold, 
under  the  dark,  cold  February  sky,  and  the  rising  wind 
began  to  drive  the  falling  snow  in  our  faces,  we  took  the 
woman  by  the  arms  and  said :  "Come  away,  come  away. 
It  is  of  no  use  to  stay  here  any  longer.  We  can  do  no 
good.  Let  us  be  going.  Dr.  Suydam  is  dead,  and  we  have 
buried  him." 


449 


TWENTY  years  after  the  death  and  burial  of  Jacob 
Suydam,  a  woman  came  and  stood  beside  his  nameless 
grave.  With  her  were  her  son  and  her  daughter,  now 
grown  to  manhood  and  to  womanhood. 

That  grave  was  no  longer  dark  and  cold,  under  a  dark, 
cold  February  sky,  but  was  overgrown  with  grass  and 
bright  with  flowers,  and  lay  green  and  warm  in  the  sum- 
mer light  of  an  afternoon  in  June. 

Standing  there,  the  woman  told  her  children  all  they 
needed  to  know  of  her  story  and  of  theirs — a  sad,  yet 
wonderful  story  of  ruin  and  redemption ;  of  ruin  through 
lust,  and  redemption  through  love.  She  told  her  chil- 
dren, who  were  happy  and  prosperous,  that  their  happiness 
and  prosperity  had  cost  the  man  who  lay  at  their  feet, 
his  name  and  place  in  the  world.  His  was  not  that  love, 
great  as  it  is,  of  brother  for  sister,  of  husband  for  wife, 
of  father  for  child ;  but  his  was  that  greater  love  which 
spends  itself  for  the  outcast,  the  stranger,  and  the  unborn. 

She  told  them  of  a  purpose  which  had  been  in  her 
heart  through  all  these  twenty  years,  which  was  to  leave 
them,  now  that  they  no  longer  needed  her  care,  and 
give  that  care  to  those  who  did  need  it ;  to  the  despised 
and  the  rejected ;  to  the  oppressed  and  to  the  degraded ; 
whose  days  were  toil,  and  whose  nights  were  shame. 

So  only  could  she  pay  the  debt  which  she  owed  to  the 

45i 


The  Greater  Love 

man  who  had  given  his  good  name  that  her  evil  name 
might  be  redeemed. 

As  this  woman  stood  and  talked  with  her  children, 
the  afternoon  passed  into  the  evening,  and  the  sunlight 
became  twilight.  Then  there  came  and  stood  beside  the 
other  grave  at  the  foot  of  which  the  nameless  grave  was 
lying,  a  working  man,  with  a  dinner  pail  in  his  hand. 
His  hair  was  gray,  and  his  face  was  wrinkled;  his  back 
was  bowed,  and  he  walked  slowly,  as  one  who  is  weary. 
In  the  gathering  gloom  he  did  not  see  the  woman  and  her 
children  standing  by,  but  knelt  down  beside  the  grave, 
and  whispered  to  some  unseen  presence  there. 

When  the  woman  saw  him,  she  went  and  laid  her  hand 
upon  his  head,  and  said :  "What  are  you  doing  here,  John 
Sherwood  ?" 

The  startled  man  looked  long  and  anxiously  into  the 
face  of  the  woman,  and  said :  "Is  it  you,  Marie  Du  Pre?" 

"Yes,  it  is  I,"  she  said,  "and  I  ask  you  what  you  are 
doing  here,  and  to  whom  do  you  whisper  ?  Do  you  think 
the  dead  can  hear?" 

"Yes,  I  think  so,  and  I  come  every  evening  on  my 
way  home  from  work,  to  talk  to  Keturah.  I  have  been 
asking  her  just  now  how  long  it  will  be  before  I  can  lie 
down  and  sleep  here  beside  her  and  the  baby.  I  have 
been  waiting  so  long  for  Keturah  to  say,  'Come,'  and  I  am 
so  tired." 

"Come,  John,"  said  Marie  Du  Pre,  "come;  let  us  go 
down  in  the  great  city,  and  live  and  work  where  Dr. 
Suydam  and  Keturah  Bain  lived  and  worked.  They  are 
not  here ;  they  are  there,  and  there  we  shall  meet  them. 

"When  our  work  is  done,  it  will  be  time  enough  for 
us  to  seek  them  here.  We  are  old,  you  and  I,  John,  and 
our  day's  work  is  nearly  over.  In  a  little  while  we  can 

452 


The  Greater  Love 

say,  it  is  finished,  and  you  can  come  and  lie  here  beside 
Keturah,  and  I  here,  at  the  feet  of  Jacob  Suydam,  for  -so 
I  wish,  and  so  my  children  have  promised. 

"Look,  John,  look,"  said  the  woman,  pointing  to  the 
great  city  that  lay  dark  in  the  growing  darkness  of  the 
night,  "the  dead  do  not  need  us ;  we  can  do  nothing  for 
them ;  down  yonder  are  the  living,  crying  for  help ;  let  us 
go  to  them." 

The  man  and  the  woman  went  away  together,  and  the 
children  followed  after,  leaving  the  dead  to  their  rest  and 
their  peace. 


'453 


UCSB    LIBRARY 


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